5^>g^ 


SUCCESSION 


SUCCESSION 


A  COMEDY  OF  THE  GENERATIONS 


BY 

ETHEL    SIDGWICK 

AUTHOR    OF 
«'  LE    GENTLEMAN,"    "  PROMISE,"    "  HERSELF,"   ETC. 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


96r 

Copyright,  1913 

By  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

(incorporated) 


TO 

M.  S. 

THIS  BIOGRAPHICAL  FRAGMENT 
IS       CONFIDENTLY      DEDICATED 


421747 


CONTENTS 

PART  I— THE  FIRST  CAMPAIGN 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   A  Question  of  Age i 

II    The  First  Test 36 

III  The  Rats — and  Duchatel        ...  60 

IV  The  Tyrant 94 

V   Moricz 137 

VI    Holidays 168 

VII    The  Penalty 194 

VIII    Lemouski 228 

PART  II— THE  SECOND  CAMPAIGN 

IX    The  Bad  Subject 257 

X    Victor  is  Difficult 279 

XI    Jacques  in  Difficulties      ....  299 

XII    Tragedy  Begins 315 

XIII  The  Critic 343 

XIV  Letters 371 

XV    Tragedy  Proceeds 406 

XVI    And  Finishes      ......  440 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PART  III~THE  COST 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII    The  Family 467 

XVIII    Weber 497 

XIX    The  Fete 524 

XX    Savigny's  Task    ......  562 

XXI    The  Last  Assault      .        .        «        .        .  589 

Finale *        i        s        .  620 


PART  I 
THE    FIRST    CAMPAIGN 


SUCCESSION 

CHAPTER  I 

A  QUESTION  OF  AGE 

M.  LuciEN  Lemaure  and  his  younger  nephew,  having 
quarrelled  nearly  up  to  the  last  moment  before  leaving  Lon- 
don, made  a  truce  upon  the  sea. 

It  was  a  lovely  night  of  April  when  the  pair,  accompanied 
by  a  bag  of  unassuming  dimensions  and  a  violin,  arrived  at 
Southampton  Harbour.  The  crowd  was  not  excessive,  and 
the  sea  was  calm.  These  circumstances,  and  especially  the 
last,  were  pacifical  to  the  temper  of  M.  Lucien,  and  the 
peace  was  augmented  by  self-approval.  He  considered  his 
charge  in  these  days  always,  though  he  might  disapprove 
him.  Thus  he  had  chosen  the  long  route,  with  really  re- 
markable self-denial,  because  Antoine  had  an  odd  habit  of 
sleeping  better  on  the  water  than  in  any  house  or  hotel  on 
shore;  and  now  he  had  reason  to  be  gratified  by  his  own 
foresight  and  generosity,  the  more  so  that  the  expected 
penalty  was  plainly  not  to  be  required  of  him. 

"  There  is  the  last  of  England,"  he  observed,  as  the  screw 
began  to  churn  in  the  dim-lit  water  of  the  river  mouth,  and 
the  lights  of  the  town  swung  sidelong  and  retreated.  "  Tant 
mieux." 

"  Why  '  tant  mieux  '  ?  "  snapped  Antoine  at  his  side.  "  I 
like  England — a  good  deal — now  and  then." 

"  Lately  ?  "  queried  his  uncle,  a  satirical  eye  upon  him. 
"  See,  you  are  tired,  my  friend.  Suppose  you  stop  contra- 
dicting me  and  go  to  bed." 

I 


2  *  '••:  ^'J  • .  • ':  i ..  iS^^'C'C E  S  S  I O  N 

Later,  under  the  influence  of  a  cigarette  on  the  moonlit 
deck,  his  mood  grew  milder  still.  "  Sleep  well,  mon  petit," 
he  said,  in  the  tiny  cabin.     "  We  are  going  home." 

Antoine,  who  had  no  immediate  intention  of  sleeping,  was 
staring  out  of  the  dim  porthole  of  a  fascinating  space  of  the 
unknown.     "  That  is  home  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  vaguely. 

"  To  be  sure.  My  first  youth  was  passed  there,  like 
thine." 

After  an  interval  spent  in  a  vain  effort  to  imagine  his 
uncle  with  no  hair  on  his  face,  Antoine  gave  it  up  and  re- 
curred to  the  window.  "  I  wish  I  lived  on  the  sea,"  he 
murmured. 

"  There,"  said  his  uncle,  "  you  must  not  expect  my  sym- 
pathy. For  me,  the  Channel  is  merely  the  only  way  to 
France." 

"  The  only  way,  yes,"  said  the  boy ;  and  being  bidden  to 
rest  and  not  talk,  he  dropped  with  docility  beside  the  muffled 
violin. 

He  emerged  on  the  world,  at  the  approach  to  his  native 
shores,  silent  and  thoughtful.  As  the  train  flew  towards 
Paris,  Lucien's  observations  as  to  the  probability  of  seeing 
his  own  father  at  the  terminus  were  received  soberly,  almost 
with  shyness.  The  boy  volunteered  nothing  himself  that 
suggested  pleasure  in  anticipation.  Whether  this  lifeless- 
ness  were  indifference  or  fatigue  his  uncle  could  not  say. 
As  a  fact,  M.  Lemaure  was  not  ill  pleased  to  have  him  quiet, 
for  his  tongue  had  been  used,  during  the  last  fortnight, 
with  unnecessary  facility  and  eft'ect.  M.  Lucien  was  still, 
almost  unknown  to  himself,  suffering  from  some  of  its 
excursions  in  the  late  campaign. 

The  few  remarks  the  boy  did  make,  as  he  leant  to  watch 
the  early  sunlight  on  the  Norman  fields,  were  in  pure  pleas- 
ure at  seeing  France  again.  They  were  so  childish  in  phras- 
ing and  manner,  that  Lucien,  who  was  nothing  if  not  con- 
scientious, was  stirred  to  review  some  of  these  recent  im- 
pressions with  misgiving. 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  3 

"  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "  if,  after  all,  I  have  attached 
too  much  importance  to  a  schoolboy  fit  of  conceit.  After 
all,  he  has  been  flattered  quite  enough  to  account  for  it. 
It  might  have  been  mischief  rather  than  insolence:  I 
mean,  rather  to  annoy  me  than  to  insult  his  grandfather. 
I  cannot  believe  he  intended  that." 

He  ran  again  through  all  the  circumstances  of  their  last 
and  most  serious  difference.  The  boy  had,  in  Lucicn's  view, 
gone  suddenly  mad  before  the  last  performance  of  his 
London  season.  He  had  agreed,  after  some  skirmishing,  to 
the  substitution  of  his  grandfather's  newest  work  for  a 
favourite  item  on  his  programme ;  and  had  proceeded  to 
show  himself  so  capricious  and  indifferent  over  its  per- 
formance as  to  make  both  his  uncle's  and  his  conductor's 
lives  a  burden  to  them  during  the  early  rehearsals.  After 
the  last  Lucien  had  charged  him  sharply  to  his  face  with 
inconsistency ;  whereupon  Antoine's  temper  had  flared  out, 
in  a  fashion  almost  unknown  in  him,  though  exactly  as 
his  mother's  had  been  wont  to  do ;  and  he  had  allowed  him- 
self the  expressions  which  had  electrified  his  uncle,  to  whom 
faith  in  his  father's  character  and  genius  had,  all  his  life, 
amounted  to  a  religion. 

"  He  was  tired  that  night,"  thought  Lucien  now.  "  He 
lost  his  head  simply,  and  has  regretted  it  since.  He  is  still 
nervous  too — no  doubt  I  thundered  rather,  but  the  whole 
thing  took  me  unawares." 

"  See,  Antoine,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  as  they  drew 
nearer  to  the  capital.  "  In  case  your  grandfather  should 
be  at  the  station,  we  had  better  have  things  clear.  I  have 
told  and  shall  tell  him  nothing  of  your  folly  that  night.  Not 
that  he  would  take  it  seriously,  in  any  case ;  but  there  is  no 
reason  to  distress  him  with  such  nonsense.  You,  I  think, 
are  sorry  for  the  words,  and  for  me,  it  is  forgotten.  C'est 
entendu,  hein?"  He  held  out  a  hand  with  dignity,  feeling, 
since  he  had  been  really  hurt,  very  generous, 

"  What  will  you  tell  him  then  ?  "  said  Antoine,  turning 
his  dark  eyes  without  deranging  his  languid  attitude  along 


4  *  SUCCESSION 

the  seat.  "  Just  that  I  said  some  '  sottises,'  the  same  as 
always  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  a  child,"  thought  Lucien  instantly.  "  He  is 
clever,  maddening.  Of  course  my  action  will  have  to  be 
explained.  I  shall  say,"  he  said  aloud,  with  deliberation, 
"  that  we  differed  about  the  concerto.  That  you  were  diffi- 
cult and  headstrong  over  that,  which  is  certainly  true. 
You  have  admitted  since  that  it  was  too  much  for  you, 
eh?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy.  "  It  is  an  awful  thing,  but  I 
played  it.    I  had  to  have  something  real  that  night." 

"  You  imply  my  father's  composition  is  not  real  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not,"  said  the  boy,  under  his  breath.  "  I  have 
remembered  he  is  your  father  now." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  M.  Lucien,  with  stateliness.  "  And 
have  you  no  duty  to  him  as  well  ?  " 

"  I  shall  see  him  soon.  I  shall  remember  then."  Antoine 
diverted  his  eyes,  to  his  uncle's  private  relief.  "  Do  you 
think  I  do  not  want  to  remember,  after  that  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed,"  said  Lucien, 
by  way  of  the  last  word  in  argument,  and  retired  to  his 
paper. 

"  You  like  me  to  be  ashamed,"  said  Antoine,  snatching 
the  last  word  from  him,  though  still  with  a  manner  of 
extreme  languor.  "  Good,  then,  I  have  been.  It  is  not " 
— he  watched  the  trees  of  Normandy  sleepily — "a  very 
nice  feeling." 

"  I  am  glad  you  know  what  it  is  like,  at  least,"  growled 
his  uncle  into  the  paper. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  said  his  nephew.  "  What  it  is  like,  is  to 
make  you  feel  rather  sick — all  the  time — especially  while 
you  are  playing  it." 

"  What  ? " 

"  The  thing  you  are  ashamed  of." 

"  Antoine,"  said  Lucien,  rising  and  discarding  the  paper, 
"  do  not  be  absurd.    Here,  look  at  me.    You  suffered  that 


A   QUESTION    OF   AGE  5 

night  at  the  concert,  eh  ?  You  excited  yourself  so  much, 
httle  imbecile.    Are  you  tired  now  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you — this  is  l*" ranee,"  replied  Antoine.  "  That 
is  a  French  cow,"  he  murmured,  *'  not  so  fat.  That  is  a 
French  tree,  not  so  thick.  The  sky  is  different,  and  the 
sun.  The  concerts  will  be  easier,  I  expect.  Did — did  you 
say  he  would  be  at  the  station  ?  " 

M.  Lucien  gave  him  up  and,  since  he  seemed  merely 
sleepy,  let  him  be.  He  wished  he  had  not  disturbed  the 
subject,  and  decided,  having  warned  him  once,  to  let  it 
sink  to  oblivion.  There  was  no  fear,  fortunately,  of  the 
boy's  repeating  his  graceless  impertinence  to  the  composer's 
face ;  even  at  ten  years  old,  his  wildest  period,  Antoine 
would  never  have  gone  so  far  as  that.  Nor  had  Lucien 
any  wish  to  punish  him  further,  since  he  admitted  to  be- 
ing ashamed.  While  he  smoked,  he  took  to  wishing  in- 
stead that  the  boy  looked  better,  for  that  was  a  thing  his 
father  would  be  bound  to  notice,  and  which  his  present 
quiet  behaviour  would  rather  exhibit  than  disguise. 

M.  Lemaure  was  not  at  the  station :  he  had  a  visitor. 
The  arrival,  to  Antoine,  resembled  a  dream — one  of  those 
uneasy  dreams  of  familiar  things  in  which  no  person  quite 
realises  expectation,  no  sight  or  sound  rings  genuine. 

As  they  entered  the  well-known  flat  his  grandfather 
opened  the  study  door,  but  he  gazed  on  them  with  an  eye 
which,  though  benign,  showed  the  abstraction  of  society. 
His  voice  had  the  same  quality  of  remoteness,  so  that  the 
boy,  for  a  moment,  asked  himself  if  he  could  have  heard, 
and  be  vexed  with  him  behind  the  veil. 

"  It  is  well,  Lucien,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Come,  my 
son.  Son  Altesse — expressed  the  wish  to  wait  for  you. 
He  desires " 

What  he  desired  was  lost  to  Antoine.  The  name  in- 
dicated to  his  ears  one  of  his  grandfather's  patron  friends : 
a  very  great  person  indeed  outside  the  world  he  now  hap- 
pened to  stand  in;  but  within  it  a  benevolent  but  rather 
second-rate   amateur.      Both   Lucien   and   his    father   had 


6  SUCCESSION 

taught  the  young  man,  or  endeavoured  to  do  so:  he  ex- 
pressed himself  profoundly  indebted  to  each,  but  did  not 
fail  to  make  use  of  them  whenever  it  suited  his  convenience. 

The  talk  was  conducted  half  in  French,  half  in  German, 
which  M.  Lemaure  spoke  well,  and  his  son  badly.  The 
great  man  would  not  stay  to  lunch,  though  courteously 
pressed  to  do  so ;  and  M.  Lemaure  was  kept  on  his  feet, 
while  his  son  stood  itching  to  push  him  into  his  chair,  and 
banish  this  intruder  on  their  homecoming. 

M.  Lemaure,  who  had  hardly  noticed  Antoine  in  his  dis- 
traction, presently  caught  sight  of  him  and,  with  a  barely 
visible  sign,  brought  him  to  his  side.  Having  him  there, 
he  used  him  to  rest  a  hand  upon,  and  the  boy  knew,  by 
the  hand's  weight,  he  was  tired.  Once,  when  Antoine 
glanced  up  at  something  in  the  dialogue,  he  caught  his  eye. 
The  look  was  one  of  understanding,  though  he  did  not 
smile.  Thereupon,  the  first  ray  of  reality  pierced  Antoine's 
nightmare.  He  had  been  longing  for  weeks  for  this  one 
person;  now  he  felt  that,  somewhere  in  the  distance,  a 
grandfather  might  exist. 

At  last  the  noble  youth  was  content,  and  decided  to 
make  his  adieux.  In  doing  so,  he  noticed  Antoine,  and 
asked  bluntly  who  he  was. 

"  My  daughter's  son,  Antoine  Edgell,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
in  his  equable,  tired  tone. 

"  And  a  musician,  I  doubt  not." 

"  In  his  degree,"  the  old  man  assented.  "  He  is  just 
through  his  first  English  season." 

"  With  success,  I  hope."  The  Frenchman  answered  by 
a  little  gesture,  as  his  eyes  passed  across  his  son's.  "  Aha," 
said  the  personage.  "  You  will  send  him  to  teach  me  also, 
monsieur,  one  of  these  days." 

This  was  a  royal  joke,  and  M.  Lemaure  smiled.  "  Qu'en 
dis-tu?"  he  said  to  the  boy.  "Thou  mightst  be  more 
successful." 

"  I  should  not  want  to  be,"  said  Antoine,  out  of  the 
dream  in  which  he  was  engaged.    It  was  probable  that  his 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  7 

German  was  wrong,  for  he  heard  them  laugh  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  and  he  expected  a  reproof  from  his  teacher  when 
the  visitor  had  gone. 

However,  M.  Lemaure,  having  seen  his  guest  to  the  outer 
door,  returned  and  sank  thankfully  into  his  chair. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  one  might  have  lunch,  and  embrace 
one's  family.  Come  to  me,  my  child."  He  held  and  ex- 
amined him.  "  A  bad  night  ?  "  he  asked  at  once — "  or 
merely  the  remains  of  five  concerts  ?  " 

"  I  have  slept,"  said  Antoine  rather  guiltily. 

"  Tell  me  of  the  last  one,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Set 
my  mind  at  rest." 

"  The  '  Foret '  was  all  right,"  said  Antoine,  looking 
round  him  in  panic.  "  He  has  got  a  paper — may  I  go  to 
my  room  ?  " 

"  It  is  lunch-time.     But  go,"  he  added,  "  if  you  will." 

"  The  sea  was  perfect,"  contended  Lucien,  as  soon  as 
he  had  departed.    "  Even  I  escaped." 

"  Yet  that  is  not  his  natural  colour,  I  hope." 

"  No.  He  is  certainly  very  easily  affected  by  fatigue 
lately.    It  is  only  a  passing  qualm,"  said  Lucien. 

"  Savigny  is  in  the  country,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "I  will 
ask  young  Bronne^  to  look  at  him."  He  said  no  more,  but 
Lucien  saw  by  his  brow  that  he  was  vexed.  The  bonne, 
when  they  went  to  lunch,  said  that  M.  Antoine  would 
take  nothing  and  sent  his  excuses. 

"  Is  he  sick  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure. 

Margot  the  privileged  shrugged,  and  slightly  shook  her 
head.  "  He  is  better  there,  I  imagine,"  she  said.  "  He 
prays  Monsieur  to  leave  him  alone." 

Monsieur  acquiesced,  still  with  that  shadow  of  a  regal 
frown,  leaving  examination  of  the  delinquent  till  later.  He 
turned  to  his  preoccupations  of  carving,  and  the  entertain- 
ment of  his  son. 

"Am  I  to  have  no  history?"  he  asked,  after  a  time. 
"  My  English  correspondents  have  both  abandoned  me 
lately." 


8  SUCCESSION 

"The  younger  also?"  said  Lucien.  "  I  am  rather  re- 
lieved to  hear  it.  I  thought  he  would  surely  have  teased 
you  with  complaints." 

"  Complaints,  eh  ?  Is  the  public  life  not  what  he  thought 
it — or  are  you,  Lucien,  disappointing  in  your  new  ca- 
pacity ?  " 

"  I  should  be  much  surprised,"  said  Lucien,  "  if  he  even 
recognised  I  had  a  new  capacity.  He  still  thinks  of  me  as 
teacher  simply — when  I  am  not  just  a  detestable  impedi- 
ment." 

In  spite  of  his  sharp  tone,  his  father  laughed  easily. 
"  Which  he  has  now  at  last  evaded  by  escaping  to  Paris," 
he  suggested.  "  Poor  child,  he  little  thinks  I  shall  prove 
a  more  serious  impediment  still.  We  are  to  have  you  with 
us  for  a  time,  Lucien  ?  " 

"  I  shall  remain  till  he  is  safely  started,"  said  his  son — 
■'  if  there  is  room  for  me,"  he  added. 

"  There  is  your  old  room,  as  long  as  you  will." 

"  And  Philip  ?  " 

"  Phil  is  contented  sleeping  out,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  He 
is  nearer  his  work  and  his  friends.  I  am  flattered  in  these 
days  if  he  visits  me." 

"  Humph,"  said  Lucien.  "  You  probably  encourage  him 
in  negligence,  if  all  were  known.  Well,  I  shall  see  that 
Antoine  attends  to  you,  at  least."  His  tone  took  on  more 
menace  than  he  was  aware. 

"  Do  not,"  counselled  his  father,  an  eyebrow  lifted 
slightly.  "  I  have  no  anxiety.  It  has  never  struck  me,  I 
assure  you,  to  fear  being  trampled  by  my  children.  You," 
he  added,  "  are  by  far  the  most  severe." 

"I  ? "  His  father  laughed  at  the  change  in  his  face. 
"  You  are  jesting,"  said  Lucien,  with  dignity. 

"  I  feel  able  to  jest,"  said  M.  Lemaure  in  apology. 
"  Might  I  ask  which  of  the  journalists  has  been  abusing 
me  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  Lucien  hastily.  "  An  contraire."  He 
felt  he  was  not  acting  well,  and  his  father,  though  aged, 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  9 

was  clearly  as  quick  as  ever.  He  made  an  effort.  "They 
can  hardly  find  flattery  enough  for  the  boy.  As  for  criti- 
cism, one  does  not  ask  for  it,  there.  There  is  no  getting 
at  the  truth."    He  bit  his  lip. 

"  Do  you  need  the  truth  ? "  said  his  father. 

"  As  a  fact,"  said  Lucien,  after  a  pause,  "  I  do  in  this 
instance.  I  was  not  at  the  last  orchestral.  I  left  him  in 
Wurst's  charge,  and  went  to  the  country." 

"  How  ? "  The  old  man  showed  surprise.  **  I  should 
have  asked,"  he  said,  as  though  recollecting.  "  How  is 
your  wife  ?  " 

"  Not  well,"  said  Lucien,  gathering  force;  "  but  her  indis- 
position was  not  my  reason  for  retreating.  I  should  not 
easily  desert  my  post,  as  you  know ;  but  the  boy  made  it 
clear  enough  he  had  no  use  for  me.  He  clung  to  that  sacrc 
concerto  of  Tschedin,  which  he  knows  you  detest,  and  which 
I  never  thought  in  a  condition  to  perform.  He  mocked 
himself  of  my  objections,  contradicted  me,  eluded  me,  and 
twisted  Wurst  round  his  finger  at  rehearsals." 

"And  Wurst?" 

"  Wurst  found  him  charming.  He  has  Russian  blood 
himself,  and  had  known  the  composer.  He  has  encouraged 
all  Antoine's  revolutionary  tendencies  from  the  first.  The 
pair  of  them  took  the  last  concert  so  completely  out  of 
my  hands  that  it  seemed  fruitless  to  remain." 

"  Bebe  forgot  himself,"  pronounced  M.  Lemaure,  still 
quite  at  ease.  Indeed  the  situation  so  reminded  him  of 
Antoine's  childhood  that  he  longed  to  laugh.  "  What  did 
he  say,  and  when  ?  " 

"  We  will  not  revive  it,"  said  Lucien.  "  When  he  came 
to  his  senses,  he  apologised  sufficiently.  Perhaps  he  was 
not  well." 

"  Yet  you  left  him,"  the  father  reflected.  It  was  so  un- 
like Lucien  that  he  stored  the  question  for  investigation 
later.    "  Friedrich  has  written,"  he  observed,  after  a  silence. 

His  son  started  visibly.  "  Friedrich  Reuss  ?  He  was 
not  in  London." 


lo  SUCCESSION 

,  "No;  but  I  have  ofteo  noticed,  wherever  he  may  be  in 
Europe,  he  is  admirably  au  courant  with  our  proceedings, 
particularly  those  of  the  youngest  of  us.  Besides,  Wurst 
is  in  correspondence  with  him,  and  Wurst  seems  a  trifle — 
debordant,  as  you  say.  A  dream  of  beauty  is  his  expression 
for  the  *  Foret  d'Automne.'  " 

Lucien  sat  silent,  genuinely  taken  aback.  The  common 
critic,  of  course,  he  never  regarded,  but  this  was  a  case  of 
direct  communication  between  two  musicians  of  note.  His 
little  intrigue  to  quash  the  subject  was  out-manceuvred 
by  fate. 

"  The  *  Foret '  was  doubtless  good,"  he  said  coldly. 
"  The  first  performance  in  public,  Antoine  would  be  care- 
ful." 

"  Careful — ^that  is  his  word."  The  old  man  smiled.  "  You 
quote  him,  eh?  We  often  had  to  complain  of  his  care- 
lessness in  old  days — but  never  with  my  things." 

Lucien  seemed  to  have  no  more  to  say.  He  was  a 
merciless  critic  in  the  outer  world,  but  on  certain  subjects, 
with  his  father,  he  was  shy.  It  was  useless  to  speculate 
on  the  contents  of  Wurst's  report — and  he  was  not  offered 
Reuss's  letter.  Lucien  devoted  himself  instead  to  the  seri- 
ous business  of  lunching.  Margot's  cookery  was  excellent 
as  ever,  and  in  the  society  which  was,  with  the  exception 
of  his  wife's,  the  most  congenial  in  the  world  to  him,  his 
spirits  steadily  rose  and  his  temper  softened.  When  the 
coffee  appeared,  he  took  his  cup  to  the  window,  and  re- 
mained there  some  time  stirring  it  complacently,  while  he 
gazed  down  at  the  sunny  boulevard. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  as  his  father  came  to  his  side,  "  it 
is  a  relief  to  be  out  of  London.  It  is  a  gloomy,  comfort- 
less place  at  best.  Yes,  yes,  if  Cecile  keeps  better,  I  shall, 
stay  a  bit."  As  a  hand  came  upon  his  shoulder,  he  added  :| 
"  I  trust  it  will  do  the  child  good — he  has  been  irritable 
enough  of  late." 

"  He  will  soon  get  over  it,"  said  M.  Lemaure  quietly. 
"  The  first  season — one  has  almost  forgotten  what  it  is. 


A   QUESTION    OF   AGE  ii 

Having  waited  an  instant,  he  added:  "  This  is  Hke  old  days 
to  have  you  both.  I  propose  now,  Lucien,  that  you  should 
rest." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Lucien.  "  Do  you 
suspect  me  of  coming  over  on  holiday?  When  is  the  first 
engagement — Sunday  ?     Rest,  indeed !  " 

"  Let  him  be  for  a  time.    There  is  no  harm." 

Lucien  grunted.  "  I  shall  not  disturb  him  while  he  is 
seasick,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  It  would  do  him  no 
harm  to  play  scales  all  the  week." 

"  Scales — as  you  will,  but  not  persons.  Not  Dmitri 
Tschedin,  I  mean,  nor  even  me.  It  is  intrusive  personality, 
always,  that  disturbs  the  current  of  Antoine's  philosophy." 

"  Father !    How  absurd." 

"  But  I  have  long  remarked  it.  His  own  individuality 
fights  the  alien  matter,  and  it  is  not  till  he  has  either  re- 
jected it  or  absorbed  that  he  is  steady  again.  Wurst  and 
his  Russians  have  excited  him — nothing  more  natural. 
For  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  plunging  into  memory,  as  he 
stood  by  his  son's  side  at  the  window,  "  at  his  age,  the  realm 
of  music  did  not  hold  such  petulant  passions,  any  more 
than  it  held  flat  heresy,  like  that  of  Sorbier  and  Duchatel." 

"  Antoine  adores  Duchatel,"  remarked  Lucien.  "  There 
is  no  fighting  there." 

"  Bon !  "  The  old  man  laughed.  "  Heresy  on  the  hearth 
then,  if  it  must  be  so.  So  long  as  he  does  not  play  the  stuff 
in  my  hearing." 

"There  is  that  attic  on  the  sixth  floor,"  said  Lucien, 
becoming  more  contemplative.  "  It  is  true,  he  makes  more 
noise  than  he  used.  The  concierge  might  let  us  use  it,  if 
it  is  vacant  still.    I  will  see  to  it,  when  I  go  down." 

Shortly  after,  inspired  in  part  by  this  useful  idea,  Lucien 
left  his  father  alone  to  his  writing,  and  went  out  to  taste 
the  air  of  his  native  city,  so  far  as  cigarette  smoke  would 
allow  him  to  do  so. 


12  SUCCESSION 

Antoine  was  at  home  indeed,  and  peace  was  his  for  the 
whole  afternoon.  He  lay  full-length  in  his  own  little 
room  beyond  the  kitchen  of  the  limited  establishment,  and 
studied  the  familiar  walls,  with  the  familiar  stains  upon 
them,  and  listened  for  the  occasional  echoes  of  his  grand- 
father's voice,  and  Margot's  gentle  clatter  in  the  kitchen 
precincts. 

At  five,  becoming  impatient  suddenly  of  his  circum- 
stances, he  dragged  himself  up,  and  made  his  way  to- 
wards the  study.  But  his  limbs  felt  heavy,  and  cumbrous 
to  move;  so  he  stopped  at  the  kitchen,  and  rested  there. 
Margot  had  departed  on  some  business  downstairs,  and 
there  was  no  company  for  him  but  a  gaily  leaping  little 
fire,  and  the  great  cat.  He  found  the  fire  soothing  and 
watched  it  for  a  while,  enjoying  the  scent  of  burning 
wood,  which  proved  he  was  in  France. 

Presently  the  study  door  opened,  and  his  grandfather 
called  Margot.  Antoine's  head,  and  the  cat's,  turned 
simultaneously.  He  thought  of  answering,  but  found  no 
energy.  He  watched  the  door  intently  instead,  and  after 
a  minute  was  rewarded. 

"  She  has  gone  down,"  he  said,  in  rather  languid,  me- 
chanical utterance. 

'*  And  you  take  her  place  ?  "  M.  Lemaure  approached 
the  fire  too.  "  Have  you  had  enough  publicity,  my  child, 
that  you  remain  thus  in  the  *  coulisses  '  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  the  boy  said  nervously.  "  I  was  going  to 
come  soon.  It  was  only  rather  warm  in  here."  He  stretched 
his  strong  fine  hands  to  the  fire,  shivering  slightly. 

"  A  kitchen  is  charming,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  satisfying 
the  spoiled  cat  with  a  touch,  though  he  did  not  touch  his 
grandson.  But  his  remembered  tone  was  of  the  most  gentle 
cordiality,  a  rest  in  itself  to  Antoine's  overworked  ears 
and  nerves.  "  I  remember,  you  always  preferred  it,  not 
only  on  the  winter  evenings.  Except  when  Margot  drove 
you  out,  I  always  found  you  reading  here." 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  13 

"  Yes."  Antoine  looked  at  the  Ccat.  "  Hector  was  young 
then,"  he  said. 

.  "  Several  of  us  have  got  old  since  then,"  said  M. 
Lemaure.  The  boy  looked  up,  and  saw  his  smile.  He 
could  not  be  old,  he  thought,  to  smile  like  that.  And  yet, 
the  music 

"  Tell  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  taking  a  hand  in  his  to 
warm  it,  "hast  thou  had  these  sensations  before?" 

"  I  can't  remember,"  said  Antoine,  after  consideration. 
"  I  think  this  sort  is  quite  new — since  Friday.  It  does  not 
matter,  hein  ?— if  Savigny  is  not  there." 

"  But  it  matters  to  a  few  besides  the  doctor.  What  oc- 
curred on  Friday  ?  " 

"  A  scene,"  said  Antoine  thoughtfully.  "  I  made  most 
of  it."  His  eyes  smiled,  not  his  lips,  remembering  the 
"  scene  "  in  that  other  world  of  London.  "  What  is  the 
thing  you  hurt,"  he  inquired,  "  simply  by  being  angry  ?  " 

"  Your  soul,  I  should  think."    The  old  man  laughed. 

"  Oh  no ;  my  soul  was  better,"  said  Antoine,  with  con- 
viction. "  Much  better  afterwards.  When  it  is  quite  fin- 
ished, I  am  really  very  happy.  But  Savigny  does  not 
understand  that." 

"  I  imagine  not,  if  you  look  like  this,"  M.  Lemaure  re- 
flected. "  Come  to  the  study,  darling,"  he  said,  with  sud- 
den decision.  "  It  is  as  warm  there  as  here,  and  more 
restful — for  both  of  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine,  "  you  are  standing  up."  He 
had  only  just  noticed  this,  which  was  a  serious  omission. 
He  bestirred  his  heavy  limbs,  rose,  and  followed.  To  his 
relief,  his  uncle  was  not  there  when  they  attained  the 
study,  and  he  took  Lucien's  usual  place  unreproved. 

His  grandfather,  before  settling  to  his  own  work,  looked 
out  a  letter  among  the  many  on  the  table,  and  dropped 
it  on  Antoine's  knee. 

"  There  is  for  you,"  he  said.    "  Just  arrived  to-day." 

"  How  quick ! ""  said  Antoine,  having  deciphered  it. 
"  That  concert  was  Saturday,  and  he  is  in  Berlin." 


14  SUCCESSION 

"  There  are  English  journals  in  Berlin,"  said  M. 
Lemaure.  "  Also,  as  you  see,  Wurst  had  written  at 
once.  You  shall  have  that  to  keep,  it  is  more  yours  than 
mine.  And  one  day,"  he  added,  "  your  own  grandchildren 
will  prize  it." 

He  smiled,  but  the  boy  did  not.  He  folded  up  the  Ger- 
man scrawl,  signed  with  the  famous  name,  with  the  tips 
of  his  delicate  fingers,  and  pushed  it  into  his  pocket.  Then, 
as  his  grandfather  seemed  occupied,  he  curled  up  in  his 
uncle's  chair,  and  reflected  deeply  on  the  letter,  its  writer 
who  was  his  friend,  Wurst  the  cunning  little  Russian,  and 
others  of  the  kind  whose  image  brought  relief. 

At  six  he  was  roused  by  the  apparition  of  M.  Louis 
Bronne.  M,  Bronne  was  a  handsome,  melancholy  young 
man  of  dark  complexion,  and  Dr  Savigny's  faithful  slave. 
He  was  rather  slow  in  speech  and  method,  but  extraordi- 
narily effective,  as  the  Lemaures  had  reason  to  know. 
Antoine's  acquaintance  with  him  was  of  old  date,  and  he 
bore  his  coming  well,  though  he  felt  impelled  by  politeness 
to  slide  from  his  comfortable  chair  to  a  footstool  by  the 
hearth.  Dr  Bronne  accommodated  his  legs  to  the  vacant 
chair,  and  since  Antoine  was  on  a  convenient  level,  took 
him  by  the  chin. 

"  Personally,  we  disapprove  of  him,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 
"  We  should  be  glad  to  have  your  opinion  also." 

"  But  you  didn't  come  for  that,"  the  boy  protested. 

"  I  heard  Monsieur  your  grandfather  wished  to  speak 
to  me,"  said  Bronne,  in  a  slow,  fine  accent.  "  As  to  the  sub- 
ject, we  may  talk  of  you  as  well  as  another." 

"You  permit  us?"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

Antoine  resigned  himself  with  an  expressive  movement. 
"  I  will  tell  you  quickly,"  he  said,  "  and  then  you  need  not 
talk  about  me." 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  young  doctor.  "  But  don't  em- 
broider too  wildly,  or  I  shall  interrupt." 

"  I  don't  want  to  embroider,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  shall 
tell  you  your  things,  that  is  all."     He  proceeded  to  give  a 


A   QUESTION    OF   AGE  15 

close  and  extremely  clever  account  of  himself,  and  the 
extraordinary  sensations  which  had  shaken  his  spirits  be- 
fore that  last  performance  in  the  Regent's  Hall. 

"  I  had  been  furious,  excited,  impatient,  rude,"  he  said, 
summing  up  his  sins  for  commentary.  "Savigny  would  not 
have  liked  to  see  me  on  Friday  night.  To  be  tired  after 
that,  or  to  have  an  old  pain,  would  have  been  very  well.  I 
speak  for  him,"  he  added,  as  Bronne  laughed.  "  But  I 
can't  play  when  my  hands  shake,  and  I  am  afraid  of  be- 
ing sick.  I  don't  suppose  Lemonski  could,  or  Charretteur, 
or  my  uncle,  or  anybody.  You  will  have  to  take  that 
right  away — you  or  he."  He  got  more  earnest  and  grasped 
the  doctor's  cuff.  "  I  had  rather  have  the  other  pain,  a  lot 
of  it." 

"  It  is  probably  the  old  pain  that  brings  this,"  said 
Bronne,  who  was  now  caressing  his  own  chin  with  one  long 
hand:  the  other  was  just  touching  Antoine's  wrist. 

"  Well,  take  them  away  both.  I  don't  mind."  The 
boy's  short  laugh  was  singularly  nervous.  He  always  de- 
tested these  consultations ;  and  the  fingers  of  his  uncap- 
tured  hand  were  snapping  unconsciously  with  impatience. 
His  grandfather  watched  him  with  close  interest  and  a 
kind  of  admiration.  The  two  were  so  much  in  physical 
sympathy  that  he  could  accurately  gauge  his  feelings,  and 
his  remarkable  mastery  of  them,  feverish  as  he  was. 

Dr  Bronne  dropped  the  wrist  he  was  holding  suddenly, 
and  felt  inside  his  coat.  "  I  have  to  trouble  you,"  he  said. 
"  This  is  the  next  thing." 

Antoine's  glance  passed  from  the  instrument  to  his  grand- 
father. "  That  is  not  used  for  your  soul,  I  believe,"  said 
he. 

"  You  had  thought  of  your  heart  already,  had  you  ?  " 
said  Bronne,  watching  him  unfasten  his  clothing  with  rapid, 
clever  hands. 

"  I  was  not  sure,"  said  Antoine  hastily.  The  facts  he 
possessed,  by  means  of  his  grandfather  and  a  medical 
brother,  were  various  and  accurate;  but  he  had  a  strong 


j6  succession  I 

""'There  is  not  enough  to  write  to  Savigny,"  Antoine  n> 
*°™BareV'  said  Dr  Bronne,  beautifully  serious. 

..Khr  said  A-t^./--.^rrt^r:::r 

trate  the  expression  of  his  tace         \y  y 
tell  me?   I'm  not  afraid  of  being  dead. 

don ^But  you  see,     nc    1 1  ^^  concert  here 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  M.  Lemaure  to  his  grandson,  a  lit- 
tle lateT"' y'ou'will  be  well  in  a  day  or  two  <£  you^a« 
patient.     Bronne  thmks  you  have  been  exct,  g  :, 

lx:f-S'th:rare  :rfz  x:jJ^^r.  y.. 

::Sdt— if  I^rrsince  youth  is  at  fault, 


A    QUESTION    OF    AGE  17 

He  laughed  as  the  boy  shifted  the  stool  with  a  sudden 
jerk  and  flung  his  weight  back  against  the  sofa  close  to 
him. 

"  Gently !  "  he  said,  touching  him.  "  I  have  to  be  con- 
sidered now." 

"  Oh  yes !  "  said  Antoine.  He  considered  obediently  at 
some  length,  finding  the  point  of  view  convenient  and  the 
change  of  posture  comfortable.  It  seemed,  his  grandfather 
would  fit  into  the  old  place  after  all,  in  spite  of  recent  ob- 
scurities. He  fitted  sedulously  for  a  period,  the  new  and 
the  old.  M.  Lemaure,  with  excellent  tact,  did  not  try  to 
come  near  too  suddenly. 

"  He  has  slipped  back  to  the  wild  state,"  the  old  man  was 
thinking  on  his  side.  "  Lucien  has  been  inattentive.  Per- 
haps he  will  tell  me  what  it  is,  in  time." 

Having  his  grandson  now  so  close  beneath  his  eyes,  he 
could  discover  little  change.  Antoine  had  remained  over- 
slight  since  his  illness  of  two  years  back,  so  that,  especially 
in  the  present  childish  pose,  he  barely  looked  his  fourteen 
years — they  could  easily  have  passed  him  as  twelve  before 
the  multitude,  had  they  wished  to  do  so.  The  little  lines 
of  strain,  relics  of  the  experience  of  the  last  hard  months, 
had  vanished  in  the  caressing  firelight.  He  was  of  those 
who  think  deeply  without  grimacing,  though  at  other  times 
his  face  was  never  still.  He  looked  puzzled  merely :  faintly 
annoyed,  as  at  the  forced  study  of  some  old  vexatious 
problem. 

"  It  is  soon — Sunday,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  voice  had 
a  break  of  weariness.  The  old  man's  intently  critical  look 
changed. 

"  You  are  not  playing  Tschedin  on  Sunday,  my  love." 

"  No — tant  mieux.  I  will  practise,"  said  Antoine,  "  per- 
haps, to-morrow." 

"  As  you  will,"  said  his  guardian  tranquilly. 

"  How,  as  I  will  ?  "  in  a  flash,  indignant  almost. 

"  You  are  to  do  as  you  like,  according  to  Monsieur  le 


i8  SUCCESSION 

beau  Bronne.  I  am  to  humour  you — Lucien  also,  natu- 
rally." 

Antoine  gave  him  a  questioning  glance  round  the  corner, 
to  judge  if  he  were  serious.  One  could  never  tell,  though 
personally  he  did  not  find  the  subject  of  doctors  amusing. 

"  I  am  well  now,"  he  observed,  reassured  by  the  ex- 
pression he  found,  and  subsiding  more  completely  against 
his  grandfather's  knee. 

"  You  will  be,  if  you  are  sensible." 

Silence. 

Antoine  reviewed  a  portion  of  the  ceiling  above  his  head. 
The  fire  had  always  made  a  shadow  there  of  a  certain  spider- 
shape  when  the  room  was  otherwise  unlighted.  It  was 
pleasant  to  discover  the  shape  still  there,  and  things  in 
general  so  unchanged.  There  was  an  air  of  sympathy  about 
this  house  that  London  houses  lacked.  He  reflected,  watch- 
ing the  pretty  flicker  of  light  on  the  study  walls,  that  it 
would  be  easy  to  be  "  sensible  "  in  France — "  good  "  as 
well,  if  necessary.  And  even  should  he  fail  to  satisfy  the 
high  standards  of  his  uncle  and  Dr  Savigny  in  these 
things,  his  grandfather  was  still  there,  a  useful  presence, 
to  intervene  and  interpret  to  them  both.  That  was  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  at  "  home,"  as  his  uncle  called  it ;  in  the 
place  where  the  three  best  and  most  peaceful  years  of  his 
life  had  been  passed. 

The  boy's  dark  eyes  shifted  slowly  from  object  to  ob- 
ject, dwelling  on  each  as  a  memory  arose.  The  prints  low 
down  on  the  walls,  as  though  inviting  to  expert  study — 
they  had  been  above  his  head  at  eight  years  old,  and  one, 
in  the  corner  by  the  piano,  he  had  feared.  The  piano,  now 
so  seldom  opened,  then  in  constant  use  for  illustration  and 
accompaniment — he  had  never  cared  for  it  much,  and 
he  had  had  a  special  grudge  against  it  for  representing  an 
orchestra  so  badly.  The  old  curtains,  with  a  darn  where 
he  and  the  cat,  both  in  their  impulsive  youth,  had  torn  the 
fabric  in  a  game — pausing  there,  he  recalled  Margot's 
voluble  anger,  and  his  own  disgrace.     The  portraits  of  a 


A   QUESTION    OF   AGE  19 

few  chosen  members  of  the  family  Lemaure,  on  the  shelf 
above  the  fire,  he  could  hardly  see  from  his  low  seat.  That 
of  a  certain  distinguished  cousin  was  gone,  he  noticed,  or 
rather  obscured  by  one  of  his  own  recent  photographs, 
unframed,  which  leant  against  it  for  support.  On  the 
significance  of  this  little  change  his  mind  did  not  dwell, 
and  his  eyes  moved  on  to  a  larger  framed  portrait  on  an 
easel  by  the  piano,  of  a  huge  man  with  bristling  hair  and 
beard,  scrawled  across  the  corner  with  a  famous  name,  of 
which  a  small  part  was  his  own — Friedrich  Anton  Reuss. 
Here  Antoinc's  eyes  paused,  finally  as  it  seemed.  The  por- 
trait represented,  not  only  a  memory,  but  a  fact:  a  very 
solid  fact,  and  one  for  which  one  might  be  thankful.  There 
were  no  teasing  problems  about  Reuss ;  one  need  not  even 
be  "  careful  "  with  him,  for  he  was  not  old.  Age  was 
Antoine's  latest  study,  and  it  was  a  wearing  one,  for  he 
intended  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it,  before  he  allowed  his 
mind  to  be  diverted. 

"Raconte  a  little,"  said  his  grandfather  presently,  for 
he  saw  well  that  the  boy's  stillness  held  no  chance  of 
sleep.  "  It  is  better  than  thinking.  You  must  have  collected 
many  things  of  interest." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Antoine,  in  an  expressionless  tone. 
"There  are  Wurst,  and  Tschedin,  and  how  they  went  to 
the  cours  at  Moscow,  and  how  the  police  shot  him,  not 
Wurst,  but  Tschedin,— shot  him  dead.  Those  are  interest- 
ing things." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  I  still  prefer  thine 
own." 

"  Oh,  bah !  "  said  Antoine,  moving  restlessly.  "  My 
uncle  has  told  all  that." 

"  Not  about  Saturday,  evidently,  since  he  was  not  there." 

"  Saturday  ?  "  The  storyteller  considered.  "  Yes,  that 
will  do,"  he  decided.  "  He  went  away  just  before  the  con- 
cert, because  he  was  ennuye,  and  my  aunt  was  ill.  I  was  " 
— an  expressive  gesture — "  I  told  you  how.  I  was  quite 
alone  to  dinner.     Wurst  had  told  me  to  be  punctual,  eight 


20  SUCCESSION 

o'clock.  I  was  late,  extremely.  I  nearly  didn't  go.  If  I 
had  not "  In  the  palpitating  pause,  he  heard  the  au- 
ditor laugh.  "  You  would  not  have  laughed  then,"  he 
finished,  in  a  flash. 

"  Excuse  me,  darling — you  are  so  sensational.  Be  calmer, 
or  I  must  simply  send  you  to  your  room." 

"It  happened  like  that,"  said  the  boy  uncertainly.  He 
looked  from  M.  Lemaure's  face  to  the  hand  that  lay  over 
his  wrist.  It  was  the  doctor's  hand,  still  quite  impersonal. 
The  face,  always  benignant,  was  a  little  grave. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  resumed,  rather  absently,  for  he  was 
counting,  "  I  had  better  talk  myself." 

"  No — do  not !  "  exclaimed  Antoine,  flushing  high.  He 
had  instantly  no  doubt  that  he  had  guessed  through  the 
veil  of  his  son's  account.  Being  what  he  was,  he  must 
have  divined  the  whole. 

"  Not  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  But  I  have  something  I 
cannot  leave  unsaid,  and  you  remind  me.  I  have  to  offer 
you  my  thanks  for  your  interpretation  of  my  work  on 
Saturday.  There  is  no  doubt  how  it  was  done,  since  Reuss 
heard  that  from  Wurst.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  inexpressi- 
ble— unimaginable  to  you,  since  you  are  young.  Therefore, 
since  I  have  you  near,  I  thank  you  now." 

He  bent  and  kissed  the  boy's  brow,  drawing  his  head 
back  for  the  purpose.  Antoine  submitted  to  it  passively, 
biting  his  lip.  His  rare  flush  had  sunk  back  to  extreme 
pallor  again,  but  that  his  guardian  could  not  see  in  the 
deceptive  firelight.  Had  he  remembered,  M.  Lemaure  al- 
ways accomplished  formalities  in  art,  even  the  smallest. 
It  was  thus  he  had  educated  the  boy  in  the  important  mat- 
ter of  etiquette,  though  he  went  actually  little  beyond  his 
courteous  nature  in  doing  so.  Doubtless  now  he  expected 
an  answer,  but  Antoine  had  turned  languid  and  seemed  in- 
different, so  the  pause  was  prolonged. 

"  It  was  hard  work  at  such  short  notice,"  the  composer 
suggested.  "  Did  you  find  it  difificult  ?  "  A  slight  nod  was 
answer.    "  How  many  rehearsals,  eh  ?  " 


A   QUESTION   OF   AGE  21 

"  Four  or  five,"  the  boy  said,  rousing.  "  They  did  not 
linderstand  at  first,  and  Wurst  wanted  me  to  go.  Up  to 
the  last  one,  it  was  very  bad." 

"Aha?  You  must  show  me;  there  might  be  simpHfica- 
tions." 

"  Simphfications !  "  thought  Antoine,  and  smiled.  With 
his  half-dropped  lids  the  smile  was  haughty — what  his  un- 
cle called  insolent — for  the  fraction  of  time  it  lasted.  "  I 
changed  one  little  thing,"  he  said.  "  Some  time — not  now 
— I  will  show  you  that." 

"  I  am  in  thy  hands,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  slightly  mock- 
ing, but  quite  serene.  His  grandson  made  a  face  in  the 
shadow,  simply  for  his  own  relief.  His  eyes,  straying  rather 
wildly  for  assistance,  found  the  portrait  of  Reuss  again. 

"  Will  Fritz  be  here,"  he  asked,  "  this  spring?  " 

"  Ah — but  I  should  have  told  you,  dearest.  He  passes 
through,  no  more,  next  Saturday.  He  conducts  the  ninth 
Symphony  and  the  Rheingold  overture  at  the  Trocadero, 
and  goes  on  to  Brussels  next  morning." 

"  He  will  not  have  much  time,"  Antoine  reflected  aloud. 
"  I  had  better  go  to  that  concert  perhaps." 

"  Is  that  so  distasteful  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure,  for  he  had 
sighed. 

"  No.     I  have  only  four  francs — ^will  that  be  enough  ? " 

"  Barely.  You  are  late,  you  see,  and  it  will  be  crowded 
to  the  doors,  not  a  doubt  of  it." 

'*  Psst !  "  said  Antoine,  moving  irritably.  "  It's  only  to 
see  him,  not  to  listen." 

"  You  will  have  to  listen  too,  if  I  know  Reuss.  Per- 
haps he  will  give  you  a  seat,"  M.  Lemaure  added,  "  if 
you  ask  him.  He  may  have  some  francs  to  spare.  He 
mentioned  in  that  letter,  if  you  remember,  that  he  had 
been  earning  enormous  sums  of  money,  and  had  not  had 
a  moment's  rest." 

"  Fritz  does  not  like  resting,"  said  Antoine,  "  except 
just  after  dinner.  I  expect  he  likes  the  money  too.  Per- 
haps if  they  gave  him  a  lot,  he  would  stay  in  Paris  a  little." 


22  SUCCESSION 

"  Well,"  said  his  grandfather,  "  wanting  a  lot  of  money, 
we  will  try  what  a  little  friendship  will  do — eh?  Shall  I 
write  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Antoine.  "  Because  then  I  need  not." 
With  a  breath  of  relief  to  be  rid  of  conjecture  and  plan- 
ning, for  a  future  which  he  preferred  to  be  decently  obscure, 
he  relapsed  into  reflection  on  his  own  lines  again.  But 
his  guardian  had  been  reminded  of  a  duty,  as  much  by  his 
fixed  wistful  gaze  at  the  portrait  as  by  any  words  he  had 
spoken.  In  thinking  over  the  quickest,  safest  remedies  for 
this  important  child  of  his,  he  had  forgotten  one.  It  was 
as  well  to  try,  as  he  had  said,  what  a  little  friendship 
would  do. 

"  He  is  with  us,  my  youngest,"  M.  Lemaure  wrote  to 
Reuss  that  night.  "  Very  happy  to  be  home,  and  have  your 
letter,  but  worn  as  though  he  had  had  years  of  work  al- 
ready. He  and  Lucien  excite  one  another,  I  fear,  no  es- 
caping it ;  and  of  the  two  he  suffers  the  more.  They  speak 
of  his  heart  now — alas,  you  remember  Marcel?  Each  of 
these  shocks,  it  is  as  though  I  had  foreseen  it.  Come  to 
us,  Fritz,  since  you  say  you  will  be  passing.  Here  is  a 
house  with  two  that  want  you,  and  that  is  more  than 
can  be  said  for  any  hotel  of  Europe.  Your  presence  will 
give  him  heart  for  his  first  trial,  which  is  Sunday,  He 
has  lost  his  nerve,  poor  little  one,  for  the  first  time  in  pub- 
lic, and  he  will  be  less  happy  as  the  week  goes  on." 

"  I  come  for  his  concert,"  Antoine's  friend  telegraphed 
in  reply ;  and  on  Saturday  he  came. 

Reuss  in  his  late  middle  age  bristled  rather  less  than  in 
his  portrait.  His  head  was  called  lion-like  by  his  admirers ; 
but,  in  fact,  he  was  a  good  deal  more  like  a  bear,  and  he 
had  always  been  a  bear  to  Antoine.  His  eyes  were  small, 
twinkling  and  kind,  his  person  enormous  in  every  dimen- 
sion. His  voice  was  gruff,  like  that  of  the  noble  beast  in 
a  fairy  tale;  and  though  it  could  thunder  on  occasion,  to 
miscreants  in  the  orchestra,  or  at  worse  miscreants  on  the 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  23 

staff  of  a  daily  paper,  no  child  had  ever  heard  anything  but 
its  pleasantest  growl.  He  loved  all  children,  and  studied 
thcni  in  serious  Teutonic  fashion ;  but  the  son  of  Henriette 
Leniaure  had  always  been  set  apart  to  him.  lie  "  discov- 
ered "  Antoine  at  eight  years  old,  and  treated  his  indif- 
ferent French  family  to  prophecies  concerning  him.  Now, 
when  the  prophecies  began  to  come  true,  Fritz  was  exultant, 
while  the  family  remained  serene.  Nothing  that  he  could 
do,  apparently,  would  move  them  from  their  tolerantly 
critical  attitude :  bluster  and  sentiment  were  alike  in  vain : 
threats  to  steal  the  boy  so  little  appreciated  met  equally 
with  what  he  called  "  the  eternal  shrug  of  France."  So  in 
fine,  Dr  Reuss  growled  no  more,  but  contented  himself 
with  securing  a  permanent  supply  of  information  about 
these  French  Lemaures  he  loved,  and  Antoine  in  particular, 
at  great  cost  of  money  and  time  to  himself;  and  with  see- 
ing the  boy  and  his  grandfather  perhaps  twice  a  year  for 
five  hours,  or  a  little  longer  if  the  fates  were  kind. 

He  arrived  late,  for  his  own  immense  rehearsal  at  a  dis- 
tant hall  delayed  him.  Antoine  was  practising  when  he 
came,  under  this  uncle's  vigilant  eye,  and  his  grandfather 
in  the  study  was  alone. 

"  But  that  sounds  well,"  said  Reuss,  when  they  had 
greeted.    "  He  has  not  broken  down,  at  least." 

"  No.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  illness  in  the  world. 
Remember  when  you  talk  with  him,  Fritz." 

"  He  has  had  more  reason  than  most  to  dread  it,"  said 
Reuss,  standing  with  his  broad  back  to  the  fire. 

"  It  is  singular,"  his  friend  agreed,  "  how  that  impression 
remains.  I  can  never  quite  determine  whether  the  fear  is 
more  of  himself  or  of  Savigny ;  but  the  mark  went  very 
deep." 

"That's  the  doctor,  hey?"  said  Reuss.  "I  never  saw 
him,  but  I  like  nothing  that  I  hear." 

"  Nor  I,"  laughed  M.  Lemaure.  "  He  himself  takes  care 
of  that.  He  flies  in  the  face  of  popularity — Raymond.  The 
only  chance  is  to  know  him." 


24  SUCCESSION 

"And  then  you  trust?" 

"  For  my  part,  completely.  I  would  not  fear  him,"  said 
M.  Lemaure  reflectively,  "  but  that  Bebe's  alarm  is  con- 
tagious. I  am  requested  to  let  Savigny  know  nothing  of 
this  little  lapse  of  his.  Nor  is  there  need,  I  think,  for  he 
is  better." 

Reuss  spoke  of  other  matters  for  a  time,  though  he  was 
listening,  as  his  friend  could  see. 

"  My  ears  are  tired,"  he  suddenly  announced.  "  I  have 
had  music  noise  all  day.    Can  I  stop  them,  Charles?  " 

"  At  your  peril.     Lucien  will  blast  you." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Lucien."  The  great  conductor  stood 
magnificently. 

"  Very  well.   Open  that  door  before  I  count  ten." 

"  You  know,"  said  Fritz,  long  after  the  ten  was  finished, 
"  I  do  not  think,  as  a  family,  you  are  artistically  concerted." 

"  Pish !  we  are  admirable.    What  will  you  say  next  ?  " 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Lucien  has  no  soul  to  speak  of, 
and  a  far  weaker  brain  than  either  you  or  Antoine.  But  you 
let  him  constantly  make  both  you  and  my  little  one  mis- 
erable." 

"  All  I  know  is,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  after  reflection,  "  if 
the  child  failed  once,  Lucien  would  not  survive  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  at  all  convinced  that  would  not  be  the 
best  solution,"  said  Reuss. 

"  Cecile  would  make  a  charming  widow,  hein  ?  And  I 
should  not  have  to  appeal  to  your  protection  so  often.  Un- 
fortunately " — he  stretched  a  hand  to  the  fire — "  I  love  Lu- 
cien. His  conscience  is  a  tonic  to  me.  I  used  to  put  my  diffi- 
culties before  him,  in  disguise,  at  twelve  years  old ;  and  he 
never  failed  to  have  an  expedient." 

"  Not  the  one  you  would  have  thought  of,"  twinkled 
Reuss. 

"  Never — but  doubtless  more  pleasing  to  Almighty  God." 
He  looked  up  half  serious  at  his  broad  German  friend. 
"You  know,  he  would  be  on  your  calendar  of  saints  in 
Berlin." 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  25 

"  Not  on  mine,"  said  Fritz  obstinately.  "  Lucien  may 
save  his  immortal  soul,  and  will,  no  doubt.  I  had  sooner 
he  respected  Antoine's." 

"  It  is  not  Antoine's  soul  that  has  suffered,"  observed  his 
grandfather.  "  He  himself  assured  me  of  that.  Really," 
he  added,  meeting  Reuss's  twinkle,  "  you  would  say  he  en- 
joys the  friction  half  the  time.  Doubtless  his  wits  need 
exercise," 

"  It  is  young  company  he  wants,"  the  German  reflected ; 
but,  watching  his  friend's  worn  looks,  he  did  not  say  it 
aloud.  "  It  is  inherited  perhaps,"  he  proceeded  tranquilly, 
soon.  "  Lucien  and  his  sister,  according  to  my  memory, 
were  snapping  all  the  day.  Yet  he  w^as  a  devoted  brother, 
as  he  has  been  a  model  uncle — has  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  has  failed  nowhere  in  essentials,"  said  the  old  man 
emphatically,  his  face  clearing,  "  nor  will.  I  trust  him  en- 
tirely, more  and  more,  even  with  this,  the  best  thing  I 
possess.  I  often  think,  Friedrich,  I  was  unjust  to  Lucien, 
when  Alarcel  and  Henriette  were  alive.  He  has  become  all 
he  is  to  me  since  that.  And  what  he  is,  he  has  made  himself, 
by  sheer  desire  for  the  good  things  fate  denied.  It  is  won- 
derful when  one  thinks "    He  broke  off,  as  the  music 

ceased  abruptly  beyond.  "  There,  they  have  finished,"  he 
concluded  quietly,  and  his  looks  took  on  the  cloud  of  age 
again. 

The  door  opened  and  Lucien  came  in,  frowning. 

"  Good  heavens,  and  is  that  not  good  enough,"  scoffed 
Reuss.    "  I  believe  he  comes  to  fetch  the  rod." 

"  Well,"  said  Lucien,  "  he  is  very  tiresome.  He  will  not 
play  one  part  at  all,  father,  and  I  am  certain  it  is  because  he 
has  doubts  of  it,  though  he  gives  every  other  absurd  ex- 
cuse." 

"  Here  is  Friedrich,"  said  his  father  gently. 

"  How  are  you  ? "  The  son  cleared  his  face  with  an 
effort. 


26  SUCCESSION 

"  Suffering  from  an  overdose,  like  you,"  said  Fritz. 
"  What  have  you  done  with  the  pupil,  hey  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  to  his  room.  I  have  had  enough  of  him 
for  the  present.  I  said  he  had  better  rest,  but  no  doubt  he 
has  seized  the  opportunity  to  do  otherwise.  Shall  I  tell 
him,  father?  " 

"  No,"  said  Fritz,  "  let  him  be.  I  will  go  later,  when  he 
has  forgotten  it." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Lucien  sharply. 

"  The  rest  of  the  concerto.  I  have  no  wish  for  him  to 
think  of  old  masters,"  said  Reuss.  "  I  want  him  to  think 
of  me." 

Inanimate  objects,  in  Antoine's  neighbourhood,  had  a  way 
of  ranging  themselves  to  express  his  inner  mood.  Drama 
existed  not  only  in  him,  but  about  him,  habitually.  He  was 
not  by  nature  orderly ;  but  to-night  the  music  strewn  about 
his  room,  as  well  as  his  own  attitude  upon  the  bed,  ex- 
pressed, past  any  further  doubt  of  the  circumstances,  dev- 
astation. Reuss,  knowing  him  well,  was  more  or  less  pre- 
pared for  it;  and  he  did  not  smile  when  he  finally  entered 
the  little  apartment,  having  got  no  answer  to  his  knock. 
The  tragedy,  he  imagined,  had  grown  past  smiling,  and 
none  was  more  prompt  in  sympathy ;  though  his  kind  blue 
eyes  twinkled  very  faintly,  as  he  kicked  the  shattered  re- 
mains of  various  great  masters  aside,  and  made  his  way 
through  their  wreck  to  the  artist. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  growled  agreeably,  using  his  own 
tongue  as  his  custom  was.  "  This  is  no  greeting,  surely, 
for  one  who  comes  so  far.  Come,  do  not  cry,  but  let  him 
know  the  worst,  the  ancient  friend.  It  is  for  that  he  has 
come,  to  be  told." 

"  You  have  your  concert  to-night?  "  gasped  Antoine,  half 
turning.  He  was  at  the  last  exhausted  stage  of  tears,  and 
his  voice  was  almost  extinct,  but  he  spoke  German,  and 
correctly. 

"  And  thou  thine  to-morrow,  eh?  " 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  27 

"  No.    I  cannot  go.     I  am  afraid." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Rcuss.  *'  You  are  afraid  to-night, 
for  you  are  shaken  and  not  yourself.  But  yourself,  our 
friend,  is  not  afraid." 

"  Once  I  was  not,  when  I  was  your  friend.  I  have 
forgotten  that.  I  am  horrible  now.  I  hate  him  very  much, 
and  all  music  I  hate.  I  cannot  hear  that  thing  again — I 
cannot  any  more."  His  German  was  charming  and  odd,  a 
reflection  of  his  grandfather's  careful  accent.  Reuss  de- 
lighted in  it,  and  never  corrected  him,  to  M.  Lemaure's 
indignation.  Fritz  had  even  been  known  to  mimic  the 
faults,  for  he  was  far  from  serious  in  education :  and  was 
always  pleased,  in  this  house,  to  amuse  himself  at  the  edu- 
cator's expense. 

"  Thou  art  hateful,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  stroking  back  the  boy's 
rough  forelock.  "  Well,  this  is  a  sad  condition,  and  we  must 
move  fate  to  meet  it.     How  ?  " 

Antoine  had  no  idea.  His  great  tearful  eyes  waited  upon 
Fritz,  who  had  been  known  to  have  inspirations,  even  at 
more  intolerable  junctures  than  this.  Fritz  as  usual  took 
his  time,  glancing  about  him  meanwhile. 

"  Talk,"  said  Antoine,  catching  at  his  broad  warm  palm. 
That  benevolent  gaze  bent  on  his  room  was  somehow  reas- 
suring. Antoinc's  room  was  not  as  others,  of  course,  hav- 
ing been  reclaimed  from  a  garret  for  his  sole  benefit  at 
eight  years  old,  and  presented  to  him  solemnly  as  his  king- 
dom, a  safe  retreat  from  life  and  his  uncle  Lucien.  Now- 
adays he  worked  in  it,  work  of  late  often  distasteful,  but 
it  could  not  lose  all  its  ancient  glamour,  and  still  represented 
peace  and  security.    Fritz  no  doubt  saw  it  through  his  eyes. 

Fritz's  eyes,  kind  as  they  seemed  in  their  scrutiny,  con- 
sidered the  place  odd  as  a  frame  for  childhood,  and  almost 
repellant  in  its  complete  lack  of  ease  and  adornment.  Beau- 
tiful things,  he  imagined,  would  not  have  been  wasted  on 
this  boy,  even  had  his  health  not  warranted  a  care  for  com- 
fort. Yet  beyond  the  violin,  and  a  small  store  of  books,  he 
had  no  possessions,  furniture  was  scarce,  floor  and  walls 


28  SUCCESSION 

bare  of  interest,  and,  cold  as  was  the  hand  that  lay  in 
Reuss's,  there  were  no  signs  of  fire.  Charles  Lemaure, 
he  knew,  had  ascetic  leanings,  and  had  doubtless  brought 
him  up  to  demand  little  of  externals.  Charles  would  never 
have  the  child's  eye  in  such  things,  or  picture  a  child's 
need  as  differing  from  his  own.  The  Lemaures,  intensely 
civilised  as  they  were,  hung  out  none  of  the  insignia  of  high 
civilisation.  In  a  beauty-loving  race,  the  trait  was  curious ; 
and  Reuss,  fresh  from  a  life  of  luxurious  hotels,  noticed  it 
to-night  the  more. 

"  It  seems  to  me  of  the  simplest,"  said  Fritz  composedly. 
"  I  see  Fauchard  to-night  at  nine,  for  he  has  requested  a 
presentation.  I  take  him  a  note  from  thy  teachers,  shall 
we  say :  he  strikes  a  name  from  the  programme,  and  in- 
vites another  artist.  Thou  hast  but  the  one  thing,  eh  ?  " 
He  followed  Antoine's  eyes  to  one  of  the  ill-used  volumes 
on  the  floor.  "  Well,  and  most  have  it  on  their  repertoire, 
have  they  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.    It  is  not  hard." 

"  Not  hard,  no."  Reuss  just  showed  a  twinkle.  "  We 
have  but  to  say  that  thou  art  ill." 

"I  am  not!" 

"  Ach,  I  am  stupid.    Hateful,  I  mean.    That  you  will  not." 

"Yes."  A  pause.  "Will  you  tell  him?"  hesitated 
Antoine. 

"Whom  shall  I  tell?" 

"  My  uncle.  If  you  say  it,  he  will  not  mind.  I  could 
not  talk  to  him  in  there ;  but  I  knew  I  could  not  play.  You 
do  not  mind,  to  do  it?  "  He  looked  piteous:  with  the  child- 
ishness he  could  assume  at  an  instant's  notice,  and  tried  ex- 
tremely, for  he  had  let  emotion  wear  him  out. 

"  I  will  do  all,"  Fritz  declared.  "  I  would  play  for  you, 
dearest,  if  I  could.    Is  that  not  what  a  friend  is  for?  " 

The  strong  reassurance  of  his  presence  and  voice  entered 
the  boy  by  degrees.  Reuss's  society  permitted  and  even 
encouraged  pauses,  things  hardly  recognised  by  the  eager 
brain-life  of  his  own  household.     He  encouraged  an  inter- 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  29 

val  now,  as  he  sat  grasping  the  boy's  cold  wrists  in  his  large 
warm  hands,  and  during  the  interval  Antoine  began  to  see 
a  star  of  hope  in  life  again.  At  the  end  of  it,  he  let  himself 
be  assisted  to  his  feet. 

*'  I  am  better,"  he  said.  "  I  was  stupid.  It  is  done."  He 
shook  his  head  back,  and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  Fritz's 
chair.  As  with  many  emotional  natures,  tears  left  little 
mark  upon  him.  He  looked  forlorn  and  white,  his  eyes  were 
heavy  and  their  lashes  wet.  He  snatched  a  handkerchief 
and  rubbed  them.  "  Do  not  tell  grandpapa,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  been  horrible  with  my  uncle  because  I  was  afraid. 
Do  you  know  how  that  is,  to  be  really  afraid  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure.    One  is  accurst,  and  miserable." 

"  Accurst,  yes ;  you  know."  He  gazed  at  the  friend  who 
knew.  "  I  thought  he  would  hit  me,"  he  confided  in  the 
same  exhausted  tone,  "  but  he  never  does.    He  is  so  good." 

"  Lucien  good?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  was  not,  I  played  the  notes  wrong  on  purpose, 
just  to  make  him  jump  about.  He  thought  I  had  forgotten 
it.    Forgotten !  " — with  sudden  and  violent  scorn. 

"  We  know  it  is  impossible  to  forget  such  things,"  sug- 
gested Reuss. 

"  When  you  have  played  them  a  hundred  thousand  years," 
agreed  Antoine.  "  Perhaps  I  knew  that  one  before  I  was 
born.  I  can't  remember."  He  shut  his  eyes,  and  Fritz 
had  leisure  to  note  the  changes  his  grandfather  had  men- 
tioned. 

"  Thou  mightst  of  course,"  he  said,  with  caution,  "  play 
in  error  from  another  concerto." 

"  Yes.  I  know  about  sixteen  more,"  said  the  boy,  look- 
ing absolutely  ill  and  hopeless  with  his  eyes  shut.  "  The 
Tschedin,  for  example,  which  he  finds  so  beautiful,  which  he 
loves  so  much — I  might  play  that  for  him  instead,  hein? 
It  is  so  easy  for  one's  head  to  mix  them  up."  He  lifted 
a  hand  to  it.  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  I  wish  I  understood  how 
people  think." 

Reuss,  perfectly  satisfied  and  not  a  little  entertained  as 


30  SUCCESSION 

well,  slipped  from  the  harassing  question  of  personalities, 
and  talked  of  history  and  his  own  concerns ;  finding  him 
intelligent  and  sympathetic  as  usual,  though  his  German 
sentences  in  reply  were  short. 

He  had  almost  resolved,  during  that  short  interview,  to 
leave  the  other  and  more  intimate  question,  on  which  he  had 
longed  for  enlightenment,  ever  since  his  friend  Wurst  had 
written  from  London;  but  in  the  end  he  did  not  avoid  it, 
though  he  attacked  it  rather  late. 

He  observed  Antoine  and  his  grandfather  together,  and 
made  out  that  things  were  as  usual,  and  confidence  un- 
changed between  them ;  though  the  boy's  new  "  careful- 
ness "  was  as  conspicuous  to  an  outside  eye,  as  were  the  old 
man's  signs  of  age  under  the  light.  Lucien's  irritable  state 
of  anxiety  between  them  was  likewise  all  too  obvious ;  but 
Fritz  drowned  it  and  all  such  moods  in  a  rush  of  his  splen- 
did spirits.  Fritz's  method  with  the  over-susceptible  was 
not  as  other  men's.  He  talked  persistently  in  his  most  hi- 
larious Olympian  vein,  ate  a  great  deal,  flattered  Margot 
to  her  face,  and  made  Antoine  share  his  beer.  He  took  him 
to  his  concert,  which  was  a  popular  one,  distant  to  seek  and 
noisy  when  found.  Unable,  owing  to  his  business,  to  en- 
tertain him  in  person,  he  introduced  him  to  a  box  full  of 
complete  strangers,  mostly  German  Jews,  with  diamonds 
in  their  shirts,  who  regarded  a  small  French  boy  as  a  mere 
passing  diversion,  and  left  him  to  his  own  devices.  Just 
before  Reuss  departed,  Antoine  swung  back  and  caught 
his  arm. 

"  Well,"  said  Fritz,  turning. 

"  Don't  speak  to  Fauchard,"  said  Antoine,  a  light  in  his 
eye.    *'  I  can  play  it  very  well." 

Reuss  pinched  his  ear,  and  was  gone,  leaving  him  to  make 
the  best  of  his  new  society.  The  society  was  good  hu- 
moured, and  allowed  him  an  excellent  place  without  pro- 
test. Antoine  attended  alternately  to  them  and  to  the 
orchestra,  and  since  both  appertained  to  the  province  of 


A    QUESTION    OF   AGE  31 

Fritz,  his  friend,  found  both  cnthraning.  The  hall  was 
immense  also,  and  he  liked  large  places.  Reuss,  he  no- 
ticed, appeared  quite  small  in  it,  and  his  violent  gesticula- 
tions became  mild,  softened  by  distance.  To  the  first  part 
of  the  symphony  he  attended  with  the  best  part  of  his  brain. 
In  the  slow  movement  he  went  to  sleep,  his  head  on  the 
soft  cushion  of  the  box.  He  half  woke  when  one  of  the 
fat  Germans  fingered  his  head  approvingly,  and  remarked 
upon  its  probable  contents  to  a  friend.  At  the  end,  when 
the  chorus  had  completed  the  awakening  process,  Reuss 
found  him  in  excellent  spirits,  chatting  to  them  in  German 
that  was  far  more  adequate  than  their  French. 

Fritz  swept  him  off  without  much  apology,  for  with  his 
compatriots  and  peers  at  least,  he  had  a  brusquerie  which 
Lucien  Lemaure  called  rude,  but  which  Antoine  foujid  per- 
ennially amusing.  During  the  drive  home  Antoine  gave  the 
great  man,  since  he  seemed  to  require  them,  a  few  opinions 
on  the  evening ;  but  he  confided  that  he  thought  he  had  for- 
gotten how  to  hear  music — "  I  mean  other  people's,"  he 
appended. 

"  This,"  said  Reuss  grandly,  "  is  mine.  Its  quality  is 
recognised,  at  least  in  my  land.  And  it  is  no  question  at 
all  of  forgetting,  Antoine,  since  you  slept.  Learn  that  one 
goes  to  a  friend's  concert  to  listen,  not  to  sleep  and  be  com- 
fortable." 

"  I  am  not  often  comfortable  at  a  concert,"  said  Antoine. 

"  It  was  better  even  thus,  than  at  the  last  you  attended," 
suggested  Fritz.  "  Antoine,  why  did  you  turn  my  good 
friend  Wurst's  hair  grey  in  London  ?  " 

"  How,  grey  ?  "  said  Antoine,  studying  the  lights  on  the 
river  attentively. 

"  He  wrote  me  a  long  letter  about  it.  He  would  be 
sorry,  I  gather,  to  have  you  for  a  nephew.  He  said  you 
were  a  surprising  artist,  but  a  very  naughty  boy." 

"  That,"  said  Antoine,  "  was  because  I  said  all  sorts  of 
things  at  the  rehearsals.  In  England  they  expect  you  to  be 
quiet.     I  was  enerve  a  little  that  week.     But  I  played  the 


32  SUCCESSION 

Tschedin  concerto  very  beautifully  for  Wurst,  because 
his  friend  had  written  it.     You  see  ?  " 

"  Approximately,  I  see,"  said  Reuss.  "  And  he  in  his 
turn  did  his  best  for  the  '  Foret  d'Automne.'  " 

"  His  best,"  said  Antoine  brusquely.  "  He  is  a  clever 
man." 

There,  according  to  his  idea,  it  seemed  the  conversa- 
tion would  have  finished.  But  Reuss,  though  deliberate  in 
method,  meant  to  reach  the  truth.  He  manipulated  Antoine 
with  great  skill,  as  though  all  the  instruments  of  his  own 
orchestra,  from  the  fine  flutes  to  the  obstinate  brass,  had 
been  united  in  his  composition. 

"  You  chose  it,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  having  puffed  a  little. 

"  We  chose  it,"  said  Antoine. 

"What  we,  darling?" 

"  He  did — that  is,  I  knew  he  wished  it — grandpapa.  I 
would  not  at  once.  I  said  it  was  too  hard  for  orchestra. 
So  it  is — ^you  have  read  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  it  is  my  duty  ?  "  said  Fritz. 

"  Bah !  of  course.  I  had  better  not  talk  of  it  any  more." 
The  boy  turned  his  shoulder  for  two  minutes.  Then  the 
temptation  of  the  friendly  presence  was  irresistible,  and  he 
swung  back  again. 

"  Did  Wurst  like  the  '  Foret '  ?  "  he  said  shyly,  insinuating 
his  slim  hand  under  Reuss's. 

"  My  friend  said  he  had  no  clear  impression  from  the 
rehearsals.  At  the  concert  he  thought  only  of  thy  playing, 
which  was  wonderful." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy.     "  That  is  right." 

"  It  is  so,"  thought  the  German.    "  Wurst  had  guessed  it." 

"It  was  over  that  you  angered  Lucien?"  he  proceeded 
gently,  soon. 

"  Yes.  I  had  tried  with  him,  really,"  said  Antoine.  "  But 
he  made  me  so  tired,  with  his  voice.  What  was  the  use,  to 
say  it  was  good,  when  the  score  was  there?  Wurst  came  to 
see  us — he  called  it  difficult — oh,  most  polite.  I  said,  'Merci, 
I  knew  that ' — so  did  he  naturally  with  the  orchestra.    They 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  33 

all  hated  it — it  was  a  French  thing,  and  therefore  stupid. 
Do  you  understand?  Psst!  all  the  stiff  English  faces!  1 
was  not  extremely  English,  playing  it  there  for  them." 

"  I  gathered,"  said  Reuss,  "  you  had  not  been  extremely 
English.  A  trifle  of  caprice,  hey? — even  for  the  composer's 
grandson." 

"  Well,  /  did  not  know  how  he  meant  it  to  go!  I  said  I 
supposed  if  the  first  violins  played  their  part  right  it  might 
sound  better — but  it  didn't  much.  Then  I  said  a  thing  was 
printed  wrong,  and  Wurst  knew  it  was  a  lie.  I  did  the  solo 
different — several  ways — and  when  Wurst  made  a  little  sur- 
prised face,  I  laughed.  Oh  yes,  he  saw  that  I  'm'en  fichais,' 
very  well.  It  is  a  stupid  thing — and  difficult ! — but  all  his 
things  are  that.  And  the  beautiful  Romance  of  his,"  he 
murmured  lower,  "  my  own,  he  made  for  me,  that  they 
would  not  let  me  play." 

His  expressive  tone  ran  through  every  note  of  emotion  in 
the  dark,  though  he  sat  entirely  motionless,  his  clenched 
hand  still  in  Reuss's.  Fritz  clasped  it  silently,  feeling  for 
and  with  that  impatient  misery;  but  knowing  it  better  for 
him  that  the  thing  was  said. 

"  He  is  old,  hein?  "  said  Antoine. 

"  Old — yes,  yes,  my  dear.  It  is  all  natural,  inevitable, 
and  I  have  marked  it  coming  for  long.  After  a  life  like 
that,  one  must  not  complain.  We  must  leave  it  to  the  high 
God,  when  our  lives  run  out." 

"  But  he  is  still  the  same,"  the  boy  contended. 

"  Much  the  same ;  not  what  I  have  known  him.  He  has 
suft'ered  much  these  two  years,  and  suffering  wears  the 
brain.  Thy  illness,  Antoine,  was  the  beginning.  Wait — • 
was  this  not  written  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  boy  said,  with  decision.  "  I  know  when  it 
was,  for  I  was  with  him.  I  was  getting  better,  in  Savoie. 
I  did  not  read  it,  because  I  could  not  bear  any  music,  even 
his  ;  but  I  know  he  was  writing,  all  the  time — in  those  beauti- 
ful places." 

"  Well,"  said  Fritz,  "  it  is  lost,  and  his  children  must 


34  SUCCESSION 

console  him.  Thy  success  has  been  much  to  him,  my  little 
one.  In  some  sort,  I  think,  it  renews  his  youth.  He  suc- 
ceeded early  also — though  not  so  soon." 

Antoine  did  not  answer,  but  Reuss  saw  his  eyes  move,  as 
though  in  attention  to  a  new  idea.  The  German,  to  his 
own  mind,  was  uttering  the  most  obvious  commonplaces,  for 
a  child's  ears ;  he  simply  wanted,  with  all  his  warm  heart,  to 
comfort  with  a  little  flattery.  To  have  such  utterances  laid 
away  and  pondered  like  original  truth,  was  beyond  his  ex- 
pectations. But  then,  since  he  had  seen  him  first  at  the  age 
of  seven,  Antoine  had  frequently  gone  beyond  his  expec- 
tations in  every  direction. 

Attaining  home  after  midnight,  they  found  a  little  food 
and  fire  left  them  in  the  empty  study.  Fritz  sat  down  and, 
being  heated  with  the  staircase,  wiped  his  brow.  Antoine, 
serving  him  with  correctitude  in  his  quality  as  host,  hap- 
pened to  catch  his  kind  blue  eye  in  the  process,  and  swinging 
on  to  his  knee  forthwith  hugged  him  fervently. 

"  My  uncle  wants  to  beat  me  when  I  talk  like  that,"  was 
his  explanation  in  confidence  of  this  impulse.  "  You  are 
better  to  understand." 

"  Lucien  is  his  son,"  said  Fritz,  with  gravity. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  heard  that,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Picture  it,"  said  Fritz,  seeking  moral  illustration,  "  if 
Lucien  made  remarks  about  your  father  in  your  hearing." 

"  He  often  does,"  said  Antoine.  "  Je  me  moque  joliment 
bien,  of  his  remarks." 

"  So,"  said  Fritz.  "  Ha  well,  what  would  your  own 
father  do  if  you  spoke  to  him  as  lately  to  your  uncle." 

Antoine  giggled  at  this.  He  seemed  purely  amused  at  the 
idea. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  father  that  should  manage  you,"  said 
Fritz  clasping  him  with  his  powerful  arms.  "  Where  is  he 
now,  tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  At  Amiens,"  said  the  boy.  "  He  has  some  work  for 
the  Nord  there,  very  interesting,  he  says,  but  long.  He  can- 
not come  for  any  of  the  concerts.    I  am  to  go  to  him."    He 


AQUESTIONOFAGE  35 

sighed.  "  Fritz,  does  my  uncle  really  like  the  '  Foret,'  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"lie  may  see  a  little  crooked,  my  darling:  the  com- 
poser also,  a  little:  possibly  you  do  too.  And  here  am  I, 
the  friend  of  both,  of  all,  indeed,  who  take  the  whole  at 
your  word.     Is  that  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine,  with  conviction.  "  Only  you  must 
read  it,  because  perhaps  you  will  see  it  different  from  all 
of  us — a  beautiful  thing.  Fritz,  if  some  time,  with  your 
orchestra,  we  played  it  together,  just  to  see?" 

"  I  could  not  bear  it,"  said  Reuss,  with  truth. 

"  Not  if  it  was  really  good  ? — like  the  Romance  which  he 
gave  me,  which  I  love,  which  I  played  first  to  you  in  here 
when  you  came  at  Christmas  to  take  my  room ;  and  I  was 
so  frightened  to  sleep  in  the  garret  because  there  were 
things  behind  the  boxes ;  and  you  would  '  bisser '  the  Ro- 
mance ;  and  he,  there  at  the  piano,  said  '  if  I  would  kindly ' 
— because  it  was  his  thing.  So  very  polite  to  us ;  but  I  saw 
his  little  smile."    His  face  twisted,  and  he  stopped,  to  hide  it. 

"  Thou  art  too  young  to  suffer  thus,"  the  German  thought, 
fingering  his  dark  hair.  "  It  will  be  time  enough  when  there 
are  grey  threads  here  for  that.  It  is  this  cursed  French 
training,  that  all  life  weighs  on  them  from  the  outset.  If 
this  were  mine,  I  would  not  have  it  so." 

"  Thou  wilt  be  a  good  child  to-morrow  ?  "  he  whispered 
at  parting.  And  he  got  his  promise,  given  with  infantile 
simplicity,  before  he  left  him  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FIRST  TEST 

He  was  "  good  "  next  day,  according  to  his  only  manner  of 
goodness — that  is,  dreamy.  He  went  to  church  early  with 
his  grandfather,  and  on  his  return  embarked  upon  a  letter 
to  his  father  at  Amiens :  a  task  on  which  he  spent  the  rest 
of  the  morning,  for  writing,  to  however  congenial  a  corre- 
spondent, never  came  easy  to  Antoine.  He  much  preferred 
to  prop  his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  think  of  things  he  would 
say,  if  only  Jem  were  there.  After  this  effort,  he  ate  a 
large  lunch  in  pure  absence  of  mind,  as  his  relations,  evi- 
dently much  distracted,  left  him  alone  to  its  enjoyment ;  and 
was  much  surprised  to  be  informed,  over  his  book  and  his 
dessert,  that  Dr  Reuss's  car  was  below.  He  cast  one  look 
of  reproach  at  the  clock,  one  of  regret  at  the  dessert  he 
abandoned,  seized  the  violin  at  which  he  had  not  glanced 
since  he  quitted  it  in  despair  the  night  before,  exchanged  a 
little  parting  chaff  with  Margot — who  insisted  on  putting 
his  hair  straight — and  joined  his  elders  on  the  ground  floor 
just  before  their  patience  had  completely  evaporated. 

"You  are  coming?"  he  said,  amazed  to  find  his  grand- 
father of  the  party. 

"Dost  thou  object?"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

Antoine  shook  his  head  slightly:  he  had  to  readjust  his 
ideas.  It  might  after  all  be  an  occasion  more  serious  than 
he  had  imagined,  if  M.  Lemaure,  who  had  not  attended  a 
concert  for  five  years,  chose  to  honour  it. 

All  the  three  elders  were  rather  silent  during  the  drive ; 
and  Antoine,  demure  in  imitation,  speculated  on  their  looks 

36 


THEFIRSTTEST  37 

in  turn.  His  uncle  was  always  agitated  before  his  per- 
formances ;  he  was  accustomed  to  his  sharp-edged  tone 
and  fussy  demeanour,  and  it  caused  him  little  emotion.  But 
the  other  two,  who,  he  judged,  could  not  have  serious  doubts 
concerning  the  familiar  "  thing "  he  had  to  play,  seemed 
almost  as  anxious.  His  grandfather's  brow  was  fixed,  and 
he  could  hardly  get  a  twinkle  out  of  Reuss.  It  was  not  till 
he  reached  the  Central  Hall  that  he  was  reminded  of  certain 
facts  that  might  account  for  their  nervousness,  as  they 
added,  beyond  a  doubt,  to  his  own  responsibilities ;  and,  as 
he  woke  to  them  in  turn,  the  flattering  vagueness  of  the 
morning  hours  receded. 

Antoine  had  lived  for  three  years  on  the  skirts  of  Parisian 
professional  life,  and  he  was  not  ignorant  of  the  peculiar 
point  of  view  held  by  the  schools  of  music  as  to  a  virtuoso 
performance  in  this  popular  theatre.  To-day  it  was  true 
he  had  only  one  section  of  the  programme  on  his  hands,  but 
it  was  undoubtedly  a  concerto  part,  and  it  was  awkwardly 
placed,  at  least  for  the  player's  peace  of  mind.  The  first 
orchestral  item  had  been  ill-chosen,  by  a  conductor  fresh 
to  the  guarded  traditions  of  the  quarter.  It  was  a  new 
work,  and  a  bone  of  contention  among  rival  schools ;  and 
it  left  the  student  rabble  on  the  upper  tiers  more  noisy  than 
usual. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear,"  said  Fauchard,  the  con- 
ductor, to  Antoine  while  they  waited  behind.  "  They  dis- 
like the  composer.     It  will  pass." 

As  a  fact,  Fauchard  was  infinitely  disturbed  himself,  and 
Lucien  Lemaure  was  worse.  Between  the  two  it  would 
have  taken  nerves  of  iron  to  remain  unmoved,  and  An- 
toine's  this  week  were  far  from  that.  He  frowned  and  whit- 
ened as  the  uproar  reached  them  in  retirement,  teasing  his 
strings  with  restless  fingers,  and  watching  the  door  for 
Reuss,  who  had  waited  to  conduct  his  grandfather  through 
the  crowd  to  his  place  in  front. 

"  If  he  shows  the  least  panic  they  will  fall  on  him,"  gab- 
bled Fauchard  to  Lucien,  who  had  no  need  to  be  instructed. 


38  SUCCESSION 

"  He  will  never  fill  the  hall  if  he  gets  shaky,  hey?  " 

"  If  he  does  not,  it  is  the  hall's  fault,"  growled  the  little 
professor,  who  disapproved  of  the  theatre  intensely. 

"  You  might  say  they  would  not  have  the  heart,"  Fau- 
chard  proceeded.  "  But  there,  the  students  have  the  heart 
for  anything.  Little  Lemonski  broke  down  and  cried  last 
year,  and  that  was  only  the  Saint-Saens." 

"  Here  is  Philippe,"  remarked  Antoine,  diverting  his 
uncle,  whom  the  name  of  Lemonski  would  have  stirred  to 
retort;  and  Lucien,  turning,  said: 

"  Good.    Now  we  shall  have  some  news." 

Depressed  as  the  atmosphere  was  inclined  to  be,  the  pair 
who  entered  made  a  v^elcome  stir.  They  consisted  of  a 
broad,  burly  and  bearded  German,  and  a  tall  young  medi- 
cal student  with  cropped  hair,  dressed  carelessly  in  the 
English  fashion.  Fauchard,  who  had  been  lolling  in  a  dis- 
heartened attitude,  leapt  up  at  Reuss's  appearance,  and 
M.  Lemaure  greeted  the  young  man  very  kindly.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  set  eyes  on  his  elder  nephew  since  his 
arrival,  though  the  brothers  had  met  once.  Philip  had 
altered  little,  he  found,  and  had  his  customary  air  of  doing 
the  world  a  favour  by  walking  it,  and  the  company  an 
especial  honour  by  his  appearance  on  the  scene.  When  he 
felt,  as  now,  a  trifle  shy  and  out  of  place,  the  manner  was 
accentuated,  and  Lucien  thought  him  cool  to  the  verge  of 
incivility.  Fauchard,  engaged  with  Reuss,  ignored  his 
existence.  The  rest  of  the  company,  however,  seemed  to 
be  flattered  quite  in  proportion  to  Philip's  expectation.  The 
boy  lit  a  welcoming  radiance  of  which  his  brother  was 
quite  aware,  though  he  appeared  to  overlook  it. 

"  Antoine,"  said  Reuss,  "  the  case  is  serious.  Your 
brother  says  he  cannot  keep  order  among  the  insurgents 
up  there,  and  he  comes  down  to  bid  you  fly  for  your  life." 

"  I  paid  for  my  seat,"  said  Philip,  with  emphasis.  "  and 
I  wish  I  hadn't  now.  It's  too  noisy  near  the  roof  for  my 
taste,  and  the  seat  I  paid  for  is  beastly  uncomfortable." 


THEFIRSTTEST  39 

"Why  didn't  you  come  for  a  ticket?"  cried  Antoine, 
disturbed. 

"Why  didn't  you  send  one,  ducky?  I'm  not  a  beggar — 
at  least  not  yet." 

"  Don't  tease,"  said  his  uncle. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  modifying  his  tone  of  injury,  "  I 
do  expect  a  little  attention,  now  and  then." 

"  You  can  go  to  grandpapa  in  the  '  loge,'  "  suggested  An- 
toine.   "  He  would  like  it." 

"  Would  he?  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Philip,  who  was  per- 
fectly happy  with  his  friends  above.  "  May  I  use  your 
name  to  get  through?  It's  my  own,  after  all — no  others 
of  the  kind  about.  Well,  I  forgive  you  this  time  if  you 
give  me  a  box  for  the  recital.  The  company  will  be  choicer 
— my  word !  "  He  turned  his  eyes  skyward,  as  faint  hoot- 
ing reached  them. 

"What  are  they  really  like?"  said  Antoine. 

"  Gorillas,  most  of  them."  said  Philip  cheerfully.  "  Any- 
thing that  is  dirty  and  hairy  will  do." 

"  You  are  hard  on  your  kind,"  said  Lucien,  endeavouring 
vainly  to  snub  him.  Philip,  conscious  of  cleanliness  and 
cropping,  smiled. 

"  Do  you  remember  Moreau  ?  "  he  said  to  Antoine.  "  The 
freak  with  the  long  hair  that  spoke  to  us  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  liked  him,  rather."  It  needed 
no  effort  to  recall  the  occasion  referred  to,  for  it  was  the 
only  time  Philip  had  granted  him  his  company  since  he 
came — a  momentous  though  brief  half-hour.  They  had 
simply  eaten  their  gouter  together  in  the  gardens,  and  Philip 
had  impressed  Antoine  immensely  afresh  by  his  careless 
charm,  by  the  profound  experience  of  life  he  had  gained  in 
six  months'  elementary  medical  study,  and,  not  least,  by  the 
wide  and  remarkable  acquaintance  he  possessed  in  the  quar- 
ter. 

"  Well,"  Philip  resumed,  "  Moreau's  on  the  warpath  to- 
day, and  I  can  tell  you  he's  a  caution.    He's  out  to  do  a  lit- 


40  SUCCESSION 

tie  reforming,  I  heard  in  passing.  He's  got  a  gang  with 
him,  all  ready  for  a  happy  afternoon." 

"  Does  Monsieur  Antoine  know  some  of  them,  then  ?  " 
Fauchard  inquired,  with  a  spark  of  hope. 

"  I  remember  him,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  is  amusing,  but 
he  does  not  like  Beethoven  very  much." 

"  Play  something  else,"  his  brother  advised.  The  boy 
looked  through  him  without  smiling. 

"  Will  you  come  back  to  dinner?  "  he  inquired  suddenly, 
putting  a  hand  upon  him;  having  done  which,  he  remem- 
bered Philip  disliked  to  be  touched,  and  dropped  the  hand. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  be  certain  first  you'll  ever  get  back  ?  " 
said  Philip. 

"  I  hope  they  won't  be  very  long,"  said  Antoine,  moving 
nearer,  as  the  elders  drew  aside.  "  Grandpapa  will  be  im- 
patient, do  you  see  ?  He  hates  concerts  generally.  He  only 
came  to-day  because  Fritz  is  here — and  I  am  rather  afraid." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Philip,  in  a  lower  and  much  more 
natural  tone. 

Indeed,  it  was  extremely  important  Antoine  should  not 
be  afraid,  whether  for  his  own  sake  or  that  of  others.  Philip 
talked  any  nonsense  that  came  to  encourage  him,  until  the 
other  group  moved. 

"  Monsieur  Fauchard  is  ready,"  said  Reuss,  dividing  the 
pair  with  a  swing  of  his  broad  shoulders.  "  We  are  off  to 
our  posts,  hey,  Philip?  He  needs  us  no  longer."  He  laid 
his  great  paws  on  the  boy's  shoulders,  and  looked  him  in  the 
face,  "  Nothing  can  harm  thee,  fortunately,  echter  Geist," 
he  murmured,  too  low  for  the  Frenchmen  to  hear.  But 
Philip  heard,  and  he  could  not  feel  so  sure.  Family  pride 
was  awake  in  him,  as  well  as  personal  vanity ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him,  especially  contrasted  with  the  mighty  German,  An- 
toine looked  extraordinarily  young  and  pale. 

When  he  left  Reuss  on  the  lower  floor,  and  climbed  to 
his  place  among  the  indifferent,  jesting  crowd,  his  heart 
sank  rather  strangely.  He  almost  wished  that  public  duty 
and  a  sense  of  decency  had  not  obliged  him  to  come. 


THE    FIRST    TEST 


41 


As  for  Antoine,  lie  had  a  moment  of  perfect  solitude 
when  Fauchard  had  gone,  and  listened  attentively  to  the 
reception  offered  him,  his  head  lowered  sidelong  on  the 
violin.  His  face  during  that  moment  was  a  study,  and  the 
violin  no  doubt  understood  that  he  did  not  care  for  Fau- 
chard. Then,  before  the  plaudits  had  quite  died  out,  he 
followed  his  conductor  very  closely  on  to  the  open  stage. 

He  stood  serenely  through  the  renewed  outbreak  of  ap- 
plause and  hooting  mingled.  He  did  not  smile  or  shrink, 
but  bowed  a  little  to  the  lower  hall,  and  took  in  the  upper 
with  a  penetrating  glance,  and  one  eyebrow  raised  over  the 
violin  he  was  testing,  in  a  manner  so  exactly  like  his  grand- 
father that  Reuss  and  all  who  could  remember  Lemaure 
were  laughing.  In  the  first  pause  M.  Moreau,  leaning  down 
from  his  conspicuous  place,  uttered  what  seemed  to  be  the 
opening  sentences  of  a  speech ;  but,  elegantly  turned  as  they 
were,  nobody  on  the  platform  heeded  them.  The  conduc- 
tor tapped  the  desk ;  and  as  the  first  violins  under  his  charge 
lifted  their  bows,  the  organised  storm  of  protest  from  above 
broke  again.  The  students  could  not  bear  it.  Fauchard's 
manner  was  a  little  too  sure,  and  he  at  least  must  be  taught 
his  place,  even  if  Beethoven  in  his  grave  could  not  be  in- 
structed not  to  write  show  passages. 

The  conductor's  baton  dropped,  and  he  turned  round 
pathetically. 

"  See  this  child,"  said  his  gesture  to  Antoine,  though  he 
was  unable  to  speak  through  the  clamour.  The  child  bit  his 
lip,  but  did  not  move,  standing  at  attention,  as  he  had  been 
taught. 

"  C'est  idiot,"  said  half  the  hall,  amused,  "  Shame !  si- 
lence !  "  cried  a  few  of  the  more  serious ;  and  started  a 
counter-applause  as  the  hisses  died.  Fauchard  bowed  to 
them  sweetly,  deprecating  the  students'  manners  with  his 
hands,  and  turned  about  again. 

"  The  fool,"  growled  Dr  Reuss  into  his  beard.  "  He  will 
never  do  it." 

However,  it  really  seemed  that  Fauchard  had  succeeded. 


42  SUCCESSION 

The  calm  above  was  now  profound :  Antoine's  face  re- 
laxed, and  the  baton  above  him  lifted.  It  fell  softly,  and 
the  melody  of  the  strings  broke  silence.  Into  the  melody 
came  a  long  cat-call  from  the  young  wretches  above,  so 
admirably — so  brutally  done  as  to  be  a  shock  to  the  players, 
as  well  as  to  every  musician  in  the  room. 

"  Insupportable ! — a  la  porte !  "  the  cries  broke  out  in 
greater  numbers,  as  the  boy  started  and  flushed  deeply, 
catching  at  the  desk.  He  felt  the  insult  to  the  composer, 
as  well  as  to  himself  and  Fauchard.  As  that  person  per- 
sisted with  determination  against  the  tumult,  and  the  or- 
chestra strained  to  hear  themselves  play,  Antoine  sprang  on 
the  step  of  the  estrade,  and  spoke  to  him  quite  loud  and 
clearly,  Fauchard  stopped,  with  a  dramatic  flourish.  An- 
toine walked  a  few  steps  forward  to  the  platform's  edge,  and 
took  another  survey  of  his  tormentors.  He  was  still  flushed 
a  little,  but  the  glance  was  not  at  all  appealing. 

"  Pauvre  petit,"  said  the  sympathetic  in  his  hearing,  but, 
unheeding  them,  he  still  gazed  upward.  In  the  mist-laden 
air  of  the  great  theatre,  and  amid  the  mass  of  faces,  he 
could  distinguish  no  feature  or  expression,  unless  it  were 
Moreau's  saturnine  mouth  and  long  lank  hair,  Moreau  was 
watching  his  victim  with  grim  amusement,  as  he  had  done 
the  day  they  were  introduced.  The  dutiful  demonstration 
Moreau  managed  proceeded  none  the  less.  The  cat-calls 
continued  in  well-ordered  succession,  till  Fauchard,  after 
another  dramatic  dumb-show,  took  upon  himself  to  sit  down 
with  folded  arms, 

"  Good,"  said  the  students,  approving  it.  "  A  present,  de 
la  musique,  messieurs." 

Antoine  shrugged  slightly,  but  the  strain  was  telling  on 
him.  Indeed,  his  position  was  not  enviable,  for  the  temper 
of  the  public  was  rising  fast,  and  the  floor  and  gallery  ex- 
changed insults  in  his  hearing,  while  he  stood  pinned  under 
their  eyes,  his  least  movement  visible  to  a  thousand  critics, 
and  unable  either  to  silence  them  or  retreat. 


THEFIRSTTEST  43 

"  He  will  cry  in  three  minutes,"  pronounced  M.  Morcau 
to  a  friend. 

"  What  if  his  handkerchief  is  missing,"  said  the  friend, 
with  a  diaholic  grin.  "  It  is  so  often  at  the  tender  age. 
Lemonski  cried  into  his  cuff." 

"  And  swore,  so  I  was  informed,"  said  Moreau.  "  This 
is  too  well  brought  up  to  swear ;  but  it  cries — oh,  very  soon," 

M.  Lemaure,  meanwhile,  observed  his  grandson  with  in- 
terest from  the  side.  Far  from  showing  himself  "  impa- 
tient "  at  present  of  the  spectacle  provided  for  him,  he  had 
to  calm  his  stolid  friend. 

"  He  must  help  hunself,"  he  answered  Reuss's  indigna- 
tion. "  Others  have  suffered  this ;  and  those  up  there  are 
within  their  rights." 

"Rights!  What  a  nation  you  are,"  growled  Reuss. 
"  They  want  horsewhipping,  the  young  savages." 

"Anyone  but  Beethoven,  hey?"  said  his  friend.  "But 
Beethoven  they  particularly  dislike,  it  seems,  this  season." 

"  Really  ?  And  when  has  he  a  season,  may  one  ask  ?  It  is 
no  laughing  matter,  Charles.  See,  if  he  gave  them  a  solo, 
it  might  quiet  them  ?  " 

"  But  he  will  not,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

The  inevitable  interval  of  exhaustion  came;  and  Fau- 
chard,  arising,  prepared  to  start  once  more.  All  went  well 
this  time,  for  the  students  were  rather  tired ;  the  orchestral 
prelude  was  nearly  completed,  and  the  soloist,  his  brow 
clearing,  was  settling  the  violin  under  his  chin,  when  Mo- 
reau, leaning  a  little  down  from  his  place  at  the  balcony's 
verge,  said,  in  a  perfectly  clear,  seductive  tone: 

"  Si  tu  nous  jouais  le  '  Frou-frou  '  de  Maesler,  Antoine." 

The  whole  gallery  fell  into  raptures,  for  the  piece  de- 
manded was  the  fashion  of  the  moment  in  the  cafe-concerts. 
Thunderous  applause  from  above  broke  out,  and  equally 
furious  hissing  from  below.  The  atmosphere,  from  being 
merely  threatening,  became  electric.  M.  Lemaure  at  the 
side  frowned  slightly,  and  his  grandson  Philip  turned  white. 

"  He  is  amused,  the  little  one,"  said  somebody — a  tone 


44  SUCCESSION 

of  surprise  that  caught  attention.  It  was  true.  While 
Fauchard  bounced  and  scowled,  and  the  players  bit  their 
finger-ends,  or  tapped  nervously  with  their  bows,  Antoine 
was  laughing,  leaning  against  the  desk.  Whether  entirely 
natural,  or  instinctive  acting,  even  those  who  knew  him  best 
could  hardly  tell.  M.  Lemaure's  "  Well  done  "  seemed  to 
suggest  he  thought  the  latter.  But  whichever  the  impulse 
may  have  been,  it  saved  him.  The  flash  of  young  mirth 
was  charming  in  itself,  amid  the  growing  anger  and  agita- 
tion of  that  eminently  Gallic  assembly ;  and  it  bore  witness 
to  a  genuine  sweet  temper  that  shamed  the  elder  men.  The 
students,  laughter-loving,  laughed  too;  the  gallery  divided 
instantly  on  itself.  M.  Moreau  arose  like  a  captain  and 
looked  upon  his  horde. 

"  Assez,"  he  observed,  with  a  million  s's  for  emphasis. 
"  He  knows  his  affair,  le  petit.  If  he  wants  to  play  us  his 
old  papa — va !  " 

"  It  is  finished,"  said  M.  Lemaure  to  Lucien,  as  at  last 
the  general  applause  gave  way  to  silence.  "If  only  he  is 
not  too  tired." 

It  was  the  question,  certainly.  The  boy  had  already  been 
nearly  half-an-hour  on  his  feet,  directly  in  the  public  eye, 
and  he  had  the  whole  of  his  task  still  before  him.  Yet,  on 
entering  at  last  into  his  own,  he  showed  no  agitation  audible 
to  the  keenest  ears.  It  was  just  as  though  the  battle  had 
braced  him,  for  he  had  been  sleepy  all  the  day  before. 
M.  Lemaure  turned  to  his  son  for  a  glass,  and  watched,  as 
well  as  listened,  intently.  Lucien,  literally  trembling, 
watched  his  face,  as  a  more  faithful  indicator  than  his  own 
ears.  Once  only  his  father  gave  him  a  glance,  at  a  certain 
little  dramatic  retarding  before  a  flight  of  the  solo  passage. 

"  He  has  always  done  that,"  he  murmured  to  Reuss, 
"  since  nine  years  old.  We  preach  the  classic  at  him  in 
vain.  Pretty,  hein  ?  "  he  added,  as  the  boy  swung  the  chain 
of  melody  down  with  infinite  grace,  quite  as  charming  to 
look  on  at  as  to  hear. 

"  Himself,"   said  Reuss.     "  Oh,   if   I   could  knock  that 


THE    FIRST    TEST 


45 


donkey  off  his  perch."  Fritz  detested  Fauchard,  and  by 
ceaseless  grunts  made  no  secret  of  his  opinion.  His  mood 
only  softened  now,  as  Antoine  played  alone. 

"  But  he  has  grown,"  he  murmured.  "  It  is  colossal,  the 
strength  and  delicacy — ah,  thunder  and  fury  1  "  He  let  his 
fist  fall  on  the  rail,  shaking  it  in  his  rage ;  for  the  excitable 
hall,  gallery  foremost,  broke  out  in  irresistible  admiration, 
as  the  noble  cadence  melted  into  the  innocent  softness  of 
the  orchestral  air. 

"  Exquisite — celestial,"  hissed  the  capricious  gallery,  in- 
terrupting by  far  the  most  exquisite  and  celestial  moments 
of  the  composition  by  these  appreciations  of  technical  accom- 
plishment— the  one  quality  against  whose  exhibition  they 
had  come  to  protest. 

"  No,  my  beloved,"  Fritz  apostrophised  Antoine  afar  at 
the  end  of  the  movement.  "  Even  for  you,  I  will  never 
come  to  a  republican  concert  again.  Thorough  Philistine 
vulgarity  can  only  be  suppressed  under  an  autocracy.  I 
repeat  it,  Charles.    I  wash  my  hands  of  you,  one  and  all." 

"But  they  love  hiin,"  laughed  M.  Lemaure;  and  indeed, 
as  the  boy  stood  breathless  with  his  efifort  before  the 
crowd,  who  nearly  flung  themselves  upon  him,  the  fact  was 
evident.  It  was  himself,  not  the  music,  which  left  the  ma- 
jority quite  cool.  He  might  have  done  what  he  liked  with 
the  reformers  then,  so  greatly  had  his  demeanour  pleased 
them,  and  they  contradicted  themselves  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasm  and  benevolence.  Only  Antoine  did  not  stay 
long  to  be  gratified ;  with  a  glance  and  a  word  to  Fauchard 
above,  who  was  preparing  to  start  afresh,  he  turned  and 
walked  from  the  stage. 

"  Go,  Lucien,"  said  M.  Lemaure ;  but  the  direction  was 
unnecessary,  for  Lucien  had  already  gone.  "  Well,  how  was 
it?  "  he  added,  as  his  son  rejoined  him  after  a  few  minutes. 

"  He  was  shaking  simply.  The  hounds  frightened  him, 
a  la  fin.  And  he  would  take  no  brandy  or  anything:  only 
said  he  was  very  well,  and  sat  in  a  dream." 

"  He  will  feel  it  later,"  his  father  murmured. 


46  SUCCESSION 

"  Take  the  brandy  yourself,  my  little  Liicien,"  Fritz 
advised.  "  You  who  would  dose  the  gods.  You  think  one 
needs  stimulants,  half-way  to  a  sure  triumph,  and  before 
the  monkey  population?  Ah,  but  wait  a  little,"  he  mur- 
mured ;  "  there  are  better  things  than  this,  and  he  shall 
know  it,  if  I  have  my  will.    Yes,  they  have  tired  him,  see." 

Antoine  had  slipped  back  to  his  place  so  quietly  that  his 
return  was  hardly  observed.  Then  there  was  slight  ap- 
plause, but  he  had  silence  very  quickly  when  he  looked 
about.  His  aspect  had  changed  in  that  short  interval:  it 
was  difficult  to  say  how,  but  at  least  he  had  the  general 
attention.  The  students  themselves  were  curious,  and  had 
decided  tacitly  to  let  him  be,  and  see  what  he  could  make 
of  the  thing  without  their  kind  assistance.  His  tone  at 
least  had  gained  by  the  brief  rest,  and  he  started  glorious. 
M.  Lemaure  from  the  first  note  bowed  under  it,  assailed  by 
memories.  The  public,  realising  Beethoven,  possibly,  as 
something  less  usual  than  an  "  old  papa,"  composed  them- 
selves to  strict  attention.  Moreau,  in  the  gallery,  had  ar- 
ranged his  head  upon  his  folded  arms,  the  lank  black  hair 
dropping  over  the  balustrade.  He  was  most  probably  cry- 
ing, and  enjoying  the  rare  emotion  very  much.  Towards 
the  end,  he  peeped  through  his  fingers  and  watched  the 
player;  just  before  the  conclusion,  he  vanished  altogether 
from  the  hall. 

M.  Lemaure  asked  his  grandson  in  the  carriage,  accord- 
ing to  the  family  formula,  if  he  was  content.  The  boy  as- 
sented with  a  nod  but  he  looked  anything  but  happy.  A 
concert  for  him  rarely  produced  that  after-effect,  and  to- 
day it  was  worse  than  usual.  Something  had  gone  wrong 
in  life,  and  he  could  by  no  means  tell  them  what.  In  the 
first  place,  they  did  not  come  up  to  his  expectations.  Feel- 
ing a  trifle  stupid  after  the  effort  of  the  day,  he  was  in  a 
mood  to  have  things  clearly  stated.  It  appeared  to  him  a 
chance  for  open  dealing,  since  his  uncle,  who  had  business 
with  Fauchard,  had  been  left  behind  at  the  hall ;  yet  neither 


T  H  E    F  I  RS  T    T  E  S  T  47 

one  nor  the  other  of  these  intimates  would  give  him  a  frank 
opinion.  The  one  withheld  or  postponed  it,  and  vexed  him 
with  absent  looks ;  the  other  obscured  his  meaning — a  Ger- 
man habit — with  elaborate  trifling.  Antoine  did  not  al- 
ways understand  Reuss's  humour,  and  at  present  he  did 
not  want  to  think.  His  impatience  mounted  rapidly,  and 
long  before  he  discovered  that  he  was  physically  uncom- 
fortable, his  friends  at  hand  were  driven  to  divine  it. 

"  Was  Lucien  satisfied  ?  "  J\I.  Lemaure  inquired,  for  he 
always  upheld  his  son's  right  as  preceptor. 

The  question  seemed  to  offend.  "  I  believe  he  was,"  said 
Antoine,  shrugging.    "  He  did  not  say  so,  of  course." 

"  What  did  he  say,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Oh — he  thought  it  was  all  right.  He  did  not,"  said 
Antoine,  "  think  it  was  going  to  be,  but  he  thought  it  was." 

"  Lucien  all  over,"  murmured  Reuss. 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?  "  said  the  artist,  snapping  at  him. 

"  I  have  seldom  been  so  furious,  my  darling." 

"  Oh,  bah !  "  He  jerked  aside.  "  Some  of  it  sounded 
funny  to  me,"  he  said,  his  tone  trembling  slightly.  "  But 
Fauchard  is  so  silly.  Don't  you  think  he  is  a  silly  man?" 
He  appealed  to  Reuss,  but  he  looked  sidelong  at  the  higher 
authority,  who,  he  knew  well  did  not  like  him  to  criticise 
his  elders. 

"  He  might  do  very  well,"  said  Reuss  cautiously,  "  with 
his  native  compositions.    He  doubtless  prefers  them." 

"  Le  Frou-frou  de  Maesler,"  murmured  Antoine.  "  That 
was  a  little  funny,  yes."  He  sighed.  "Moreau  gave 
me  those  purple  flowers,"  he  resumed,  indicating  an  enor- 
mous sheaf  of  iris  which  had  been  thrust  into  the  carriage. 
"  He  is  a  ridiculous  man." 

M.  Lemaure's  delicate  fingers  divided  the  sheaf,  and  dis- 
covered a  folded  paper.  "  Tiens,"  he  said.  "  May  one 
look?" 

Antoine  leant  over,  and  they  both  deciphered  Moreau's 
scrawl,  "  To  the  conqueror — his  admiring  '  claque.'  "  The 
boy  looked  up  and  laughed — a  slight  chuckle  of  real  enjoy- 


48  SUCCESSION 

ment.    Then  with  equal  brusqueness  his  face  changed,  and 
he  dropped  back,  hitting  the  cushion. 

"  The  noise  they  made  among  the  violins  was  horrible," 
he  said.  "  I  shall  dream  of  that,  I  know.  Oh,  what  is  he 
waiting  for?" — as  the  car  slackened  and  almost  stopped. 
It  was  one  of  the  usual  points  of  congestion  in  the  crowded 
avenue.  During  the  tiresome  delay,  while  trams,  cars  and 
omnibuses  hooted  and  shuffled  round  them,  Antoine  lost  his 
patience  several  times  over,  and  never  remained  still  an 
instant. 

At  the  same  time  the  old  man  roused,  at  least  partially,  to 
the  state  of  things.  Indeed,  he  was  more  or  less  prepared, 
for  his  life's  experience  of  a  nervous  family  left  him  barely 
a  chance  to  be  taken  off  his  guard.  He  passed  his  arm 
quietly  about  the  boy,  in  spite  of  his  resistance. 

"  Courage — come,"  he  said.  "  What  will  Reuss  think 
of  us,  after  but  half  a  programme?  " 

.     "  I  did  not  think — it  would  be  like  that,"  Antoine  mut- 
tered, keeping  his  eyes  turned  aside. 

"  You  had  forgotten  our  habits,  hey?    Confess  it." 

The  boy  half-shrugged  in  answer.  To  his  grandfather's 
succeeding  remarks  he  was,  at  least  according  to  the  family 
standard,  excessively  rude,  though  the  rudeness  lay  more  in 
the  manner  than  the  words.  Fritz  privately  thanked  his 
gods  that  Lucien  was  not  there,  for  they  could  hardly  have 
escaped  an  explosion.  His  friend's  accustomed  calmness 
astonished  him,  for  he  could  perceive,  in  the  shadow  where 
he  shrank  from  the  grasp  put  upon  him,  Antoine's  pallor 
had  sunk  to  a  grey-white,  and  his  eyes  glanced  feverishly 
about  under  a  slightly  knitted  brow,  as  though  seeking  for 
escape  where  there  was  none. 

They  arrived,  however,  without  mishap.  M.  Lemaure 
went  ahead,  giving  his  powerful  friend  a  sign  to  look  after 
the  boy.  Reuss  did  so,  taking  his  time'  upon  the  stairs,  and 
cursing  them  privately.  Fritz,  who  would  have  carried  any 
true  musician  to  heaven  in  a  chariot  of  fire,  had  his  means 
afforded  it,  was  unable  to  offer  the  one  beneath  his  arm  the 


THEFIRSTTEST  49 

common  commodity  of  a  lift.  He  had  reason  to  recognise 
fully,  while  he  stayed  in  this  little  home  of  intellect  and 
art,  a  few  of  those  daily  drawbacks  which  poverty  itself.? 
hardly  observes;  which  AT.  Lemaure  himself  seemed  abso- 
lutely to  relish,  as  uniting  him  to  the  "  people  "  he  loved  and 
respected. 

He  rejoined  his  friend  in  the  little  study,  stroking  his 
beard. 

"  I  have  sent  him  to  the  woman  a  moment,"  he  said,  in 
his  heavy,  kindly  tone.  "  lie  is  ill  at  ease,  poor  little  one, 
and  hardly  knows  what  he  says.  He  did  his  best  to  master 
it,  I  believe." 

"  His  best !  "  said  M.  Lemaure,  with  a  gesture. 

"  To  be  sure !  "  said  Fritz.  "  I  often  say,  you  are  the 
most  incapable  family  that  exists  in  bearing  pain." 

"  Well,  you  have  a  glimpse  of  what  is  before  us,"  said 
M.  Lemaure,  a  hint  of  bitterness  in  his  smile. 

"  Fame  is  before  you,"  said  Reuss  stolidly.  "  New  fame. 
Am  I  to  commiserate  you,  Charles?" 

"  You  are  sanguine,"  said  the  old  man,  whom  depression 
had  mastered  in  his  real  fatigue.  "  I  had  not  asked  for  fame 
— a  trifle  of  success  will  content  me.  I  ask  for  nothing  ex- 
aggerated— and  I  want  it  a  free  gift.  Friedrich — I  have 
paid  enough." 

"  Heaven  knows  that,"  said  Reuss  gently,  fingering  some 
of  the  older  portraits  on  the  chimney  shelf.  "  But  the  gods 
you  serve  are  exacting.  They  give  unequally,  and  the  pay- 
ment they  ask  is  often  unjust." 

M,  Lemaure  answered  nothing;  but  his  thoughts  pressed 
on  him  in  the  painful  vein.  Something  had  again  reminded 
him,  Reuss  saw,  of  Marcel,  the  brilliant  son  who  followed 
Lucien  in  his  family,  who  was  Lucien's  complement  almost 
in  his  talents  and  his  weaknesses,  gathered  up  all  their  ambi- 
tion and  devotion  full-handed,  and  died  at  twenty-five. 

His  lingering  look  on  Antoine,  when  he  returned,  might 
easily  have  been  in  disapproval.  The  fact  was  he  barely  saw 
him,  so  greatly  he  was  disturbed  by  the  ghosts  he  had 


50  SUCCESSION 

evoked.  His  young  head  was  obscured  by  those  shadows, 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  since  they  existed  before  he  was 
in  being.  It  had  had  an  effect  well-nigh  confusing  to  M. 
Lemaure,  to  plunge  into  the  big  world  again  after  so  great 
an  interval,  to  hear  that  music — among  all  that  existed — 
presented  prettily  and  faithfully  in  his  own  manner,  a  true 
echo  of  his  past,  yet  with  all  the  reserve  of  fiery  youth  in 
check  behind.  It  awoke  a  section  of  his  early  life  that 
had  been  put  to  sleep,  recalled  countless  forgotten  faces  of 
friends,  summoned  his  two  dearest  children  from  the  dead. 
Nor  was  that  even  all;  for,  as  his  friend  suggested,  the 
veil  of  the  future  had  been  stirred  as  well,  and  age  looks 
that  way,  when  forced,  unwillingly,  wearily  almost.  Shades 
of  destiny,  grave  enough  in  import,  had  arisen  while  he 
watched  the  boy's  instinctive  management  of  that  crowd. 
M.  Lemaure  in  his  public  life  had  had  to  study  crowds, 
and  he  knew  well  that  few  existed  more  tough  and  trying 
than  a  Parisian  holiday  audience.  The  mere  fact  of  asso- 
ciation seems  to  affect  that  clever  population  quite  differ- 
ently from  their  brethren  of  other  lands.  It  calms  them  in 
no  degree;  on  the  contrary,  it  exaggerates  all  their  private 
caprices,  and  stirs  each  individual  to  assert  himself  the 
more,  that  he  feels  the  social  ring  about  him.  M.  Lemaure, 
a  Parisian  born,  loved  it;  but  he  knew  that  it  was  not  a 
maniable  thing,  especially  when  any  part  of  it  had  a  griev- 
ance, and  in  a  stranger's  hands.  And  a  stranger  not  yet 
fifteen,  with  a  reputation  as  young  as  himself,  and  no  name 
to  back  him — for  not  a  single  reporter  had  yet  seized  upon 
his  connection  with  Lemaure.  It  had  been  absurd,  nearly, 
to  see  his  grasp  and  comprehension,  combined  with  that 
extremely  simple  bearing  which,  in  no  matter  what  society, 
is  the  key  to  popularity.  Antoine  intended  to  be  popular, 
that  was  the  effect  in  brief ;  and  his  grandfather,  the  first  to 
foresee,  was  by  no  means  sure  yet  that  he  wished  it. 

Antoine,  on  his  side,  was  clearly  oppressed  by  his  grav- 
ity. With  that  look  upon  him,  he  had  no  doubt  that  he  was 
in  fault  to  give  way  to  his  feelings,  as  he  had  done  in  the 


THE    FIRST    TEST  51 

carriage.  While  he  subsided  on  his  stool,  and  stretched  his 
long  fingers  to  the  fire  with  conscious  pleasure  in  its  warmth, 
he  remembered  with  disturbance  some  of  the  answers  he  had 
given  lately  to  his  grandfather.  Thanks  to  Margot,  the 
world  had  improved  a  little.  He  had  told  her  about  it,  in 
hurried  confidence,  and  she  had  kissed  him,  and  laughed  at 
him,  and  informed  him  that  he  was  better,  so  he  naturally 
felt  so.  Now  his  grandfather  remained  distant,  reproach- 
ing him,  when  communication  was  most  necessary.  Antoine 
thought  over  his  recent  performance,  and  decided  that 
there  was  one  thing  he  might  have  noticed,  though  it  had 
fortunately  escaped  his  master's  attention.  It  was  better, 
perhaps,  not  to  have  one's  family  in  the  audience — though  he 
had  hoped  he  and  Philip  would  enjoy  it  sufficiently.  Philip, 
all  too  evidently,  had  thought  of  nothing  but  the  disturb- 
ance, amusing  at  ordinary  times,  but  unseemly  and  disgust- 
ing when  a  near  relation  of  his  own  was  in  the  centre  of  it. 
Antoine  greatly  feared  that  Philip  had  not  listened  at  all — • 
which,  considering  the  style  of  his  opening  passages,  was 
a  pity.  He  looked  furtively  at  M.  Lemaure,  who  gazed  ab- 
sently at  him,  and  longed  for  a  word  of  reassurance.  Surely, 
thought  Antoine,  he  must  have  known  also,  at  some  period 
of  his  mysterious  past  life,  this  sense  of  chill  and  dark  dis- 
couragement, that  the  reaction  from  the  excitement  and 
the  effort  brought, 

Fritz  Reuss  could  easily  have  interpreted  between  them ; 
and  standing  behind  Antoine  on  the  hearth,  he  was  pre- 
pared to  do  so,  and  have  things  on  the  cheerful  domestic 
footing  he  preferred,  before  he  left  the  house.  He  glanced 
at  his  big  gold  watch,  and  reckoned  the  time  at  his  dis- 
posal, for,  much  as  he  loved  them  both,  he  could  not  miss 
his  train, 

"  May  one  not  drink  his  health  ?  "  he  inquired,  in  his  gruff, 
cordial  tone,  pointing  to  the  steaming  jugs  Margot  had 
brought.    "  And  he  mine,  since  I  must  soon  be  gone." 

"  I  do  not  want  it,"  said  Antoine  hastily. 

"  Thou  dost  not  want  his   health,"    said   M.   Lemaure, 


52  SUCCESSION 

"  when  he  shows  such  care  for  thine  ?  However  " — he 
roused  himself — "  coffee  is  forbidden,  Friedrich,  I  beUeve." 

"  But  now  he  wants  it,"  argued  Fritz  serenely,  glancing 
at  Antoine's  face.  "  Desire  awakens  instantly,  hey  ?  One 
needs  but  reverse  the  ten  commandments  in  this  land  to  have 
them  exactly  obeyed." 

"  It  smells  nice,"  the  boy  admitted.  As  a  fact,  he  was 
in  the  state,  mental  and  bodily,  of  being  unable  to  answer 
for  his  own  desires.  "  Savigny  does  not  mind,"  he  added, 
rather  shyly. 

"  It  is  Lucien,  hey  ?  "  said  Reuss.  "  May  we  not  revoke 
the  law  of  Lucien,  Charles?  Rules  have  exceptions,  and  he 
has  done  very  well." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  old  man,  half  surprised  by  the  echo 
of  pleading  in  his  voice ;  and  Fritz  was  actually  pouring  the 
savoury  stuff,  with  the  composed  decision  of  his  lightest 
action,  that  manner  on  which  the  boy's  tired  senses  found  it 
comforting  to  dwell,  when  voices  were  heard  on  the  stairs. 

"Already?"  Fritz  growled,  setting  down  the  coffee-pot. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  said  ^M.  Lemaure,  appealing  to  the  keenest 
ear.  "  No,  stay."  He  grasped  the  boy  as  he  would  have 
retreated. 

"  It  is  Fauchard,"  said  Antoine,  flushing  slightly  with 
annoyance.     "  I  remember,  he  told  Fritz  he  would  come." 

"  I  never  gave  him  permission,"  the  German  growled. 
"  Lucien  has  no  sense."  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  Let  him  go,  Charles,"  he  murmured.  "  It  will  be  too 
much." 

"  It  is  not  for  long,"  returned  his  friend,  "  and  in  this 
case,  there  is  no  choice.  One  is  present,  naturally — and  one 
is  well.  Youunderstand,  my  little  one?  It  is  but  to  answer, 
not  to  talk." 

"  Let  go,"  said  Antoine,  and  being  freed,  threw  up  his 
chin,  and  crossed  to  the  farther  side  of  the  fire. 

Fauchard  swept  in  upon  them,  hearty  and  jocular,  sub- 
limely oblivious  that  he  could  be  an  affliction  to  any  man.  It 
became  clear  that  Fauchard  had,  by  his  skilled  demeanour 


THEFIRSTTEST  53 

solely,  torn  the  most  interesting  concert  of  the  late  season 
from  the  jaws  of  destruction.  So  he  chattered,  radiating 
triumph,  swamping  M.  Lemaure's  weary  courtesies,  and 
Dr  Reuss's  far  from  courteous  gruffness;  and  being  kind 
by  the  way  to  the  little  boy,  the  novice  in  public  life,  to  whom 
his  protection  had  been  of  such  service,  lately  in  the  hall. 
It  was  comforting  to  witness  a  person  so  convinced  as 
Fauchard  that  he  was  doing  the  right  thing,  both  by  his 
visit,  and  the  distribution  of  his  patronage  and  attention 
about  the  little  circle. 

Antoine  afforded  him  slight  response  at  first,  since  he  did 
not  seem  to  need  it,  but  remained  thankfully  silent,  on  his 
low  stool  in  the  shadow.  Reuss  passed  him  unobtrusively 
some  coffee  in  his  retirement,  but  Lucien,  whose  attention 
was  everywhere,  frowned  a  warning,  so  that  the  boy,  too 
dispirited  to  resist,  withdrew  his  hand  from  it  and  subsided. 
He  followed  the  thin  curve  of  its  rising  steam  absently,  re- 
flecting that  in  any  case  it  might  have  been  an  effort  to  drink. - 
Then  he  turned  from  it  to  gaze  wide-eyed  at  M.  Fauchard, 
and  to  wonder  how  he  talked  so  much  without,  apparently, 
thinking  at  all ;  and  above  all  what  he  found  to  smile  at  so 
constantly. 

At  last  there  came  a  pause  in  his  oratory,  and  neither 
Lucien  nor  his  father  seemed  to  have  a  remark  ready.  M. 
Lemaure  looked,  as  it  chanced,  towards  his  grandson,  and 
Antoine  supposed  something  was  expected  of  him,  and 
roused. 

"  Will  you  have  another  cake  ?  "  said  Antoine  in  a  hurry, 
the  guest  having  already  two  upon  his  plate.  For  Fauchard 
could  eat  and  talk  simultaneously,  and  had  made  himself 
most  comfortable. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  M.  Fauchard  gracefully ;  but  his  at- 
tention was  turned  upon  Antoine,  and  he  considered  him 
with  condescension. 

"  Well,  le  petit,"  said  he,  "  and  how  did  you  find  our 
theatre,  hey  ?  Somebody — that  cub  Lemonski,  I  think  it  was 
— complained  of  an  echo.     It  is  nonsense." 


54  SUCCESSION 

"  I  heard  an  echo,"  said  Antoine,  "  near  the  beginning." 

"Ha!    What  was  it  like?" 

"  Like  a  cat,"  the  boy  said,  gripping  his  knees. 

"  Those  young  fellows,"  said  Fauchard,  laughing  toler- 
antly.    "  One  must  not  take  them  too  seriously.     We  felt 

that,  doubtless "  he  spoke  audibly  to  Lucien  aside,  with 

a  nod. 

"It  gave  me  an  indigestion,"  said  Antoine,  before  his 
uncle  could  speak,  using  the  uncompromising  terms  of  the 
French  language.    "  Did  it  you?  " 

In  view  of  the  cakes  on  Fauchard's  plate,  the  question 
was  not  considerate,  and  Reuss  hastily  intervened. 

"  How  can  you  permit  such  tasteless  interruption  ?  "  he 
said,  intending  to  aggravate  and  divert  the  man ;  but  Fau- 
chard was  unperturbed,  and  smiled,  with  a  shrug. 

"  Permit  it,  Monsieur?  It  occurs.  It  wastes  a  little  time, 
but  in  the  end  it  hurts  nobody,  and  keeps  the  public  awake." 

"  Hurts  nobody !  "  Fritz  growled.  "  Might  that  not  de- 
pend on  what  there  is  to  hurt?  All  are  not  equally  in- 
sensible ? " 

"  One  was  offended  then,"  said  Fauchard  to  Lucien,  after 
a  slight  pause  allowed  to  this  incivility,  "  Discontented 
with  the  reception,  possibly."  His  tone  was  lowered,  as 
though  the  boy  were  a  spoiled  child,  and  his  vanity  naturally 
to  be  humoured. 

"  Au  contraire,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  with  gentle  firmness. 
"  My  grandson  has  said  he  is  content — and  is  ready  to  re- 
peat it." 

Fauchard  laughed  in  a  manner  hardly  to  be  borne. 
"  Tired,  we  will  say,"  he  corrected,  studying  Antoine  closely. 

"  I  am  tired  a  little,"  said  Antoine.  "  You  see,  I  could 
not  rest  like  you  in  the  middle  of  it,  because  I  had  no  chair." 

Something  in  the  reply,  or  in  the  pose  which  the  boy's 
limbs  had  assumed,  as  though  in  reminiscence  of  a  noble 
attitude,  disturbed  M.  Fauchard's  state  of  inner  satisfac- 
tion. The  young  child,  it  seemed,  was  critical :  an  evil  thing 
for  youth  to  be. 


THEFIRSTTEST  55 

"  One  has  some  flowers,  eh?  "  said  Fauchard,  putting  his 
plate  aside  and  wiping  his  moustache.  He  looked  at  tlie 
sheaf  of  mauve  iris,  tied  with  their  festal  bow,  which  had 
already  pricked  his  curiosity,  "  It  is  early  for  the  women 
to  begin,"  Antoine,  flushing,  would  have  responded  in- 
stantly, but  a  slight  authoritative  movement  of  his  grand- 
father's hand  cut  off  the  words.  Thereafter  his  head 
drooped  and  he  sulked,  clasping  his  knees,  till  Fauchard 
went.  This  was  soon,  for  his  last  remark,  intended  to  be 
enlivening,  had  killed  the  conversation.  Even  Lucien  was 
impatient  of  his  ill  breeding,  and  Reuss,  solid  and  sulky  in 
his  chair,  made  no  longer  the  least  eft"ort  to  be  gracious, 

"  Well,  my  little  one,"  said  Faucliard  at  parting,  "  felicita- 
tions, and  good-night.  We  shall  hear  you  soon,  I  hope,  in 
a  more  important  thing.    Or  newer,  shall  we  say?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  will,"  said  the  boy,  "  when  Grandpapa  is 
there,"  And  as  Fauchard  turned  his  back,  he  made  a  face 
at  it  of  such  electrifying  quality,  that  his  grandfather,  in 
sheer  terror,  snatched  him  back  to  his  side. 

There  was  a  blank  pause,  none  daring  to  comment,  or 
even  to  smile,  till  the  honourable  visitor  was  safely  out. 
Then — 

"  On  my  honour,"  swore  Dr  Reuss,  when  the  strain  was 
relieved  at  Lucien's  return,  "  I  should  have  said  it  myself, 
Charles,  if  he  had  not.    That  last  was  insulting,  simply." 

"  It  was  no  excuse  for  impertinence,"  said  Lucien ;  but  his 
tone  was  uncertain,  for  his  father  was  laughing  helplessly, 
one  hand  across  his  face,  the  other  still  grasping  the  delin- 
quent, who  now  crouched  low  beside  him,  in  the  attitude  of 
penitence.  His  face  was  concealed,  and  his  shoulders  heav- 
ing; but  in  his  case,  as  was  evident,  not  with  mirth. 

Lucien  waited  a  little,  his  eyebrows  up,  for  the  situation 
was  a  little  beyond  him,  and  his  father  gave  no  lead. 

"  See,  Antoine,  you  had  better  go  to  your  room,"  he  said 
at  last,  gathering  the  official  tone.  "  Your  grandfather  is 
too  tired  to  be  teased,  and  you  are  excited." 


56  SUCCESSION 

"  It  IS  the  word,"  said  Reuss.  He  also  waited  a  minute, 
pulling  at  his  beard,  and  regarding  the  pair.  The  boy  only 
clung  the  closer  for  his  dismissal,  and  M.  Lemaure,  not  mov- 
ing otherwise,  had  laid  a  hand  upon  his  head.  Taking  his 
decision  from  the  movement,  Fritz  pushed  his  cup  aside, 
heaved  himself  up,  and  informed  Lucien  that  he  was  to  leave 
the  house  in  less  than  an  hour,  and  had  to  write  three  letters 
first. 

"  Twenty,  if  you  will,"  said  the  younger  Lemaure  im- 
mediately. "  My  room  is  at  your  service,  Friedrich.  You 
know  the  way." 

"  I  am  most  uncertain  of  it,"  said  Reuss  deliberately. 

"  Antoine !  " — but  the  master  got  no  further,  owing  to  a 
bear's  paw  on  his  arm.  Fritz's  eyes,  simultaneously,  af- 
forded him  their  full  blue  twinkle.  Lucien  grunted,  but 
anger  with  Reuss  was  a  thing  impossible,  and  before  he 
could  devise  another  remark,  he  was  shoved  out  unresisting. 

This  act  of  self-denial  on  Reuss's  part  was  not  unrepaid. 
He  had  a  long  and  quite  interesting  conversation,  and  was 
struck  as  usual  at  every  point  of  it,  by  Lucien's  cleverness. 
Few  letters  got  written  during  the  short  time  at  his  disposal ; 
but  it  may  be  Fritz  was  resigned  in  advance  to  leaving  the 
impress  of  himself  instead  upon  Antoine's  master's  mind. 
The  full  attention  of  such  a  man  as  Reuss  was  flattering  in 
itself,  even  without  his  spoken  advice,  and  it  was  support 
of  a  kind  that  Lucien's  anxious  nature  often  needed ;  espe- 
cially when,  as  in  Reuss's  parting  words,  the  flattery  touched 
truth. 

"  I  need  not  commend  your  father  to  you,"  said  Reuss, 
gripping  the  younger  man's  arm  with  vigorous  warmth, 
"  for  you  have  always  been  his  truest  friend ;  and  we,  who 
see  him  not  so  often  as  we  would,  must  count  on  you.  For 
the  other,  Lucien,  the  small  one,  I  ask  you  simply,  do  not 
hamper  him.  There  is  in  him  the  unknown — how  shall  I 
put  it  in  your  tongue? — the  mysterious." 

"  For  you?  "  said  Lucien  sharply. 


THEFIRSTTEST  57 

"  For  me  as  much,"  said  Fritz.  "  Understand,  I  speak  not 
now  of  his  gifts — that  is  nothing.  I  speak  of  his  age,  the 
unknown  generation.  Do  what  we  will,  we  cannot  make 
him  like  the  old." 

''  I  have  no  wish,"  said  Lucien,  with  dignity,  "  to  model 
him  on  mine." 

"Have  you  not?  Do  you  not  require  him,  for  instance, 
to  reflect  your  view  of  your  father?  " 

For  an  instant  Lucien  was  silent.  "  I  will  not  hear  crit- 
icism of  my  father,"  he  said  gruffly,  "  That  is  true.  I 
suppose  he  has  been  telling  tales." 

"  Not  he,"  said  Fritz. 

"  Wurst  then — I  see.  I  had  not  thought  he  saw  so  much 
in  London.  No  doubt  he  did,  though :  the  Russian  can  spy. 
It  matters  little,  Friedrich.  I  am  impatient — what  you  will. 
There  are  things  I  am  not  made  to  bear." 

"  I  like  you  for  it,"  said  the  German.  "  That  loyalty  is  the 
quality  I  admire.  Only — ^you  have  another  duty.  The  new 
claims  our  interest,  at  least,  as  much  as  the  old.  Has  this 
new  no  claim  on  you,  is  what  I  ask?  " 

"  Children,  as  such,  have  no  claim  on  me,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean.  I  am  not  sentimental,"  said  Lucien  slowly,  "  I 
believe  I  am  just.  What  I  mean  is,  it  would  make  no  differ- 
ence, had  Antoine  been  my  son." 

"  Excellent,"  said  Reuss,  clapping  a  fist  upon  his  palm. 
"  I  never  doubted  your  justice:  it  is  that  I  would  appeal  to. 
You  are  so  frank  with  me,  I  may  venture  all  the  way.  Then 
the  boy's  whole  value  to  you  is  his  reflection  of  your  father's 
genius.    Is  it  so?  " 

"  I  never  said  that,"  Lucien  exclaimed.  But  Reuss  saw 
that  the  saying  contained  light.  Knowing  his  well-trained 
conscience,  he  left  the  suggestion  to  work,  and  embraced 
Lucien  robustly. 

"  Your  temper  has  improved,  lieber,"  he  said,  "  so  to  bear 
with  me;  for  I  own  as  stranger  I  have  little  right  to  judge. 
It  is  not  your  nation's  habit,  as  ours,  to  stoop  to  youth,  or  to 


58  SUCCESSION 

love  the  thing  unmade.     You  summon  the  child  to  you,  is 
it  not  so  ?  " 

"  When  the  child  will  come,"  said  Lucien.  And  suddenly, 
whether  at  Fritz's  eyes,  or  at  the  memory  of  Antoine  and 
Fauchard,  he  laughed.  "  Go,  Friedrich,"  he  said,  pushing 
him  -off  with  a  friendly  hand.  "  We  never  should  agree ; 
and  it  is  surely  not  worth  while,  for  me,  to  miss  your  train." 

M.  Lemaure  was  writing  by  the  light  of  his  small  reading- 
lamp  when  Reuss  went  in  to  take  his  finaVleave,  passing  in 
and  out  with  a  stealth  surprising  in  such  a  massive  person. 
The  study,  that  charming  room  of  his  best  memories,  was 
very  still ;  for  the  moment,  a  miracle  of  peace.  The  great 
cat,  entering  in  front  of  Reuss  with  the  condescension  of  a 
king,  had  looked  for  his  customary  seat  on  the  fireside 
couch,  and  finding  it  occupied  all  its  length,  had  for  a 
moment  considered  returning  to  the  kitchen,  a  picture  of 
offence,  with  a  jerking  tail.  Then  a  judicious  snap  of  his 
elder  master's  fingers  invited  him,  and  he  sprang  suddenly 
up,  and  settled  among  the  papers  on  M.  Lemaure's  knee, 
pinning  him  to  his  place.  His  low  song  of  satisfaction  was 
audible  in  the  silent  room,  and  he  turned  on  Dr  Reuss  the 
superb  glance  of  a  favoured  rival. 

"Asleep?"  said  Fritz,  very  low,  having  advanced  to  the 
chair's  side. 

"  He  will  bear  disturbing,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  turning  a 
paper  over  soundlessly.    "  He  never  sleeps  by  day." 

"  And  at  night?  "  said  Reuss. 

The  shadow  of  a  shrug  was  answer. 

"Do  you  go?"  said  M.  Lemaure,  leaning  his  head  upon 
his  hand.  The  weariness  still  hung  upon  his  voice,  but  his 
look  was  more  serene. 

"  I  go — to  sleep  my  nine  hours  in  the  northern  express." 
Reuss  squared  his  broad  shoulders  where  he  stood. 

"  Sleep  well,  Fritz,"  said  his  friend,  with  a  faintly  mock- 
ing smile.    "  We  two  will  think  of  you  meanwhile." 


THEFIRSTTEST  59 

"  ]\Iy  daylight  thinking,"  retorted  Reuss,  "  is  worth  as 
much  as  yours." 

"  ]\Iore,"  the  other  assented.  "  Nightly  thinking  is  worse 
than  profitless — even  Bebe  could  tell  you  that."  He  made  a 
gesture  towards  the  couch,  for  the  boy  at  their  voices  had 
slightly  moved  his  head. 

"  Wide  open,  yes,"  said  Reuss,  wath  disapproval.  "  Ach, 
the  feverish  generation."  He  crossed  the  shadowed  space 
beyond  the  lamplit  ring  and,  kneeling  by  the  couch,  laid  his 
arm  across  the  occupant. 

"  Be  not  surprised  if  I  fetch  you  to  Germany  in  Septem- 
ber," he  said.  ''  Will  you  play  the  concerto  there  for  us 
once  more?  Yes? — and  when  I  come,  you  and  the  violin 
will  be  ready?  It  is  well.  Then  will  be  the  friend's  next 
happy  day.    Is  it  not  true,  my  little  angel  ?  " 

So  his  rough  moustache  brushed  the  boy's  brow,  and  hav- 
ing looked  him  over  once — the  look  of  a  benignant  spirit, 
for  all  his  bristling  attributes — Fritz  freed  him,  rose  and 
went. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  RATS — AND  DUCHATEL 

M.  Lemaure  might  not,  as  he  said  to  Reuss,  have  asked 
fate  for  notoriety,  but  his  grandson  had  no  idea  of  stopping 
short  of  it.  Antoine's  first  recital,  which  was  classical  in 
kind,  passed  almost  unheeded,  as  things  may  do  in  large 
towns.  The  second,  falling  on  a  night  of  good  spirits,  was 
so  brilliant  that  the  critics  went  down  before  him;  and 
even  his  uncle  had  hardly  anything  left  to  say.  Lucien 
would  conceivably  have  fallen  foul  of  the  last  sonata,  which 
had  long  been  a  subject  for  his  eloquence,  had  not  the  com- 
poser of  it  himself  been  there,  taking  a  strong  view  in  the 
matter  which  could  not  well  be  controverted. 

"  Duchatel  was  bouleverse,"  Lucien  informed  his  father 
the  next  morning,  for  M.  Lemaure  had  missed  all  talk  of  the 
concert  through  illness.  "  His  monocle  dropped  at  the  sec- 
ond bar,  and  he  forgot  to  pick  it  up  again  before  the  repeat. 
I  never  saw  him  so  moved  out  of  his  indifference." 

"  Victor  is  not  indifferent,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  who  was 
an  old  friend  of  the  Duchatel  family.  "  He  is  only  a  little 
tired  of  opposition." 

"  Well,  his  pose  of  indifference,  then.  Certainly  the  boy 
played  it  neatly,  especially  the  end.  And  it  is  difficult," 
Lucien  added. 

"  It  stood  last,  eh?    Did  they  recall  him?  " 

"  More  than  once,"  said  Lucien  grimly.  "  Very  agreeable 
he  made  himself,  I  assure  you.  I  told  Duchatel,  we  shall 
get  fashionable  at  this  rate ;  and  he  said,  if  it  is  at  his  ex- 
pense, he  has  no  objection." 

60 


THE   RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        6i 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  that?''  The  old  man  was 
watching  him  closely.  The  triumph  of  the  preceding  night 
was  more  clear  to  him  in  his  son's  geniality  than  in  any 
words  he  used. 

"  I  said  it  was  nonsense — he  was  watching  the  door  for 
escape  even  while  we  were  talking.  He  would  not  show 
himself,  and  slipped  oflf  before  the  end.  He  is  shy,  Victor, 
though  one  would  not  think  it  from  his  appearance." 

"  He  is  a  very  engaging  savage,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  "  and 
a  very  good  son,  I  always  liked  Victor,  for  all  his  extrav- 
agance on  paper." 

"  It  is  the  extravagance  Antoine  enjoys,  I  believe,"  said 
Lucien.  "  He  makes  the  most  of  it.  By  the  way,  father, 
Victor  wishes  to  visit  you  this  evening,  if  he  is  not  pre- 
vented," 

"  I  shall  not  prevent  him  certainly,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 
"  I  feel  new-made,  and  shall  enjoy  his  society.  I  have  not 
seen  him  for  long.  You  had  better  tell  the  boy  to  be  in," 
he  added,  as  Lucien  rose.    "  Is  he  much  occupied  to-day  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  son,  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  I  pro- 
pose to  myself  to  let  him  rest." 

"  A  holiday !  "  The  old  man  stretched  a  hand.  "  We 
congratulate  ourselves." 

"  You  have  not  seen  him  much  of  late,"  said  Lucien,  with 
a  note  of  apology.     "  But  you  will  have  understood " 

"  I  understand,"  returned  his  father.  "  You  have  done 
wonders,  evidently.    Lucien " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  son,  smiling  faintly. 

"You  will  let  me  congratulate  you  too?  After  all,  it  is 
you  who  have  led  him  straight  to  this." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Lucien.  "  I  have  worked 
hard  enough,  I  know ;  but  he  might  tell  you  another  story." 
His  voice  had  the  touch  of  bitterness  to  which  his  father 
was  well  used :  but  he  did  not  refuse  the  hand  extended, 
and  the  pleasure  from  such  direct  praise  was  clear  in  his 
face. 

"  Antoine  knows  quite  well  what  he  owes  to  you,"  said 


62  SUCCESSION 

M.  Lemaure,  "  as  well  as  I  do,  in  sober  moments.     If  he 

fails  to  express  it  always " 

Lucien  actually  laughed.  "  There  are  few  things  Antoine 
fails  to  express,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  have  to  sit  down  and 
wait  for  his  sentiments,  even  in  lesson-time ;  though  grat- 
itude is  not  apt  to  be  one  of  them.  But  he  was  charming 
last  night,"  he  added  hastily,  as  he  departed. 

Antoine  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  that  his  uncle's 
good-humour  had  survived  the  night,  though  relieved  as 
well.  None  was  more  ready  to  be  friendly  than  he,  though 
his  uncle  had  a  way  of  remembering  things  he  said  in  mo- 
ments of  stress,  and  facing  him  with  them  when  life  was  at 
its  easiest.  Antoine  hardly  understood  a  memory  like  that ; 
yet  he  could  rarely  help  laughing  when  the  remark  was  re- 
peated to  him,  as  though  it  had  been  said  by  somebody  else. 
To-day,  however,  even  Lucien's  memories  seemed  satis- 
factory, and  he  was  almost  jocular.  He  snatched  the  papers 
over  Antoine's  head  on  the  breakfast-table,  pinched  his  ear, 
and  took  them  in  to  his  father.  Antoine,  who  was  occupied 
in  telling  Margot  all  about  the  concert,  looked  blank  for  a 
moment. 

"  There,  I  could  have  seen,"  he  said,  dropping  a  hand  on 
the  table,  "  and  I  never  thought.     Now,  he  won't  tell  me." 

"  IMonsieur  your  grandfather  will,"  the  cook  consoled 
him.  She  had  already  acquired  a  paper  for  the  kitchen  on 
her  own  account,  and  smiled  at  him  superior. 

"  No,  no  ;  because  my  uncle  will  tell  him  not  to.  Perhaps 
Philippe  will  have  a  paper."  He  looked  at  the  card  he  held 
in  his  hand.  It  was  a  frightful  scrawl  from  his  brother, 
dated  the  previous  evening,  without  stops,  representing 
haste.    He  let  his  breakfast  get  cold  while  he  studied  it. 

"  Sorry  can't  nohow  come  to-night,"  it  appeared  to  say  in 
English,  "  Come  and  have  tea  with  the  Rats  in  Ostrowski's 
rooms  to-morrow.  Ostrowski  has  good  cake.  I  may  be 
there  or  I  mayn't,  but  anyhow  I'll  try." 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        63 
"  P.S.     You  might  bring  the  fiddle.    Don't  forget." 

Antoine  imparted  this  flattering  invitation  to  his  uncle  on 
his  return,  with  the  exception  of  the  postscript. 

"  Do  you  know  the  gentleman  who  does  not  invite  you?  " 
said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  Ostrowski  ?  Not  much.  But  I  think  he  was  that  very 
tall  one  last  night,  w^ith  a  short  nose  who  leant  right  over." 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  lives  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine.  "  But  I  can  go  to  de  Lussac  down 
there  in  St  Germain.    He  will  know." 

"  Have  you  any  idea,"  pursued  his  uncle,  "  what  time 
they  want  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine  again.  "  Because  of  course  the  Rus- 
sians have  tea  all  the  afternoon  and  at  night.  But  then  it 
doesn't  matter  when  I  go,  does  it  ?  " 

"  One  wishes  to  go  when  one  will  be  welcome,"  said  M. 
Lucien. 

"  Yes,  of  course."  He  paused,  wrinkling  his  brow  at  the 
card.  "  And  I  want  mostly  to  see  Philippe,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.    "  I  have  not,  much." 

M.  Lemaure  got  up  and  came  behind  him.  Laying  one 
hand  upon  the  boy's  wrist,  he  took  the  card  from  him  with 
the  other,  and  considered  it  at  leisure. 

"  Disgraceful,"  he  commented,  though  whether  on  Philip's 
handwriting,  or  his  fraternal  behaviour,  was  undefined. 
"  Try  towards  four,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  Philippe  will  prob- 
ably be  hungry  then." 

"  You  will  not  want  me  at  three  ?  "  said  Antoine,  sur- 
prised at  his  kindness. 

"  No.  I  want  you  to  be  with  your  grandfather  a  little 
to-day ;  but  I  have  no  use  for  you.  Be  home  at  five,"  he 
added,  recollecting,  "  in  case  people  come."  Whereupon  he 
passed  into  the  vestibule  to  get  his  coat. 

Antoine  followed  him  almost  at  once,  abandoning  his 
breakfast  to  its  fate.  He  was  not  at  all  hungry  this  morn- 
ing, and  could  consequently  forget  to  eat. 


64  SUCCESSION 

"  You  go  to  the  library  ?  "  he  queried.  "  Will  grandpapa 
come  to  lunch  to-day  ? "  For  during  the  week  past  he  had 
been  constantly  alone. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucien.  "  Your  grandfather  is  better." 
Antoine  did  not  say  he  was  pleased,  but  his  face  cleared 
enormously.  He  became  simultaneously  absent;  and  only 
when  his  uncle  was  gone  beyond  recall,  he  remembered  sev- 
eral important  things  that  remained  to  ask  him  anent  his 
studies  for  the  morning. 

He  was  driven,  as  frequently,  to  confide  in  Margot.  Mar- 
got  came  to  speak  seriously  to  him  about  the  breakfast 
question. 

"  Cheri,"  she  said,  "  here  is  a  week  you  have  not  eaten  in 
the  morning.  Am  I  to  continue  to  make  you  good  chocolate, 
of  which  you  leave  the  whole  upon  the  tray  ?  " 

Antoine  regarded  her.    It  seemed  a  reasonable  protest. 
"  It  smells  so  nice,"  he  explained.     "  I  do  think  I  want 
it,  and  then  I  don't  very  much." 

"  You  should  drink  all  the  same,"  said  the  cook.  "  Then 
you  will  find  you  can  finish  it." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  only  forgot."  He 
went  quickly  back  to  the  dining-room  and  found  an  empty 
cup. 

"  I  did  finish  it,"  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"  Bon  Dieu !  "  said  Margot ;  a  general  apostrophe  to  the 
failings  of  a  family,  whom  she  loved  not  least  for  their 
failings.  "  Does  he  imagine  I  intended  him  to  drink  it  cold  ? 
Monsieur  Antoine,  your  chocolate  is  in  the  kitchen.  If  you 
have  patience  for  two  minutes  you  shall  have  it  again." 

But  no  such  thing.  Antoine  followed  her  to  the  kitchen, 
cup  in  hand.  Margot  snatched  the  vulgar  paper  she  had 
bought,  and  put  it  out  of  his  sight.  It  contained  an  endear- 
ing reference  to  him,  but  it  was  not  for  his  eyes  to  see. 
Fortunately  the  subject  of  its  laudations  did  not  observe 
the  manoeuvre,  he  was  too  deeply  engaged  in  considering 
the  question  of  the  music. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  to  play  any  of  those  things  again," 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCIIATEL        65 

he  explained  to  the  cook.  "  Well,  for  two  at  least,  I  believe 
it  is  finished.  The  Duchatel  I  might  have  again,  because 
that  is  rather  new  ;  but  I  don't  think  so.    I  can't  remember." 

"  When  is  Monsieur's  next  concert?  "  said  Margot,  heat- 
ing the  milk. 

"  The  second  of  May." 

"  Then  it  will  be  advertised  surely  on  the  back  of  the 
programme  of  last  night." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  will.    But  I  did  not  have  a  programme." 

"  Monsieur  your  uncle  may  have  it  in  his  coat." 

"  He  has  taken  his  coat." 

"  Tu  es  sot,"  said  Margot,  abandoning  the  formalities. 
"  It  is  not  the  same  coat.  Here,  hold  the  saucepan  and  I 
will  see." 

She  brought  back  the  programme  before  the  milk  boiled. 

"  Tenez,  cheri,"  she  said,  having  rapidly  compared  the 
two  sides.    "  There  is  nothing  in  it  that  is  the  same." 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Antoine,  regarding  the  list.  "  Tant 
mieux." 

"  Better,  when  it  means  more  work  ?  " 

"  It  is  better — I  hate  those  old  things."  He  tossed  the 
programme  cheerfully  into  the  coal-box.  "  I  know  it  now," 
he  reassured  her,  as  she  stooped  to  rescue  it.  Margot,  with- 
out responding,  dusted  it  carefully,  and  laid  it  aside  with 
her  newspaper.  Then  she  served  him  his  warm  chocolate 
with  a  fresh  roll,  and  tapped  his  head,  once  or  twice,  as  he 
leant  by  the  stove,  to  remind  him  to  drink.  When  he  really 
discovered  an  appetite,  she  paused  in  her  work  to  watch  him 
admiringly. 

"  It  is  not  that  Monsieur  can't  eat  when  he  likes,"  she 
moralised,  as  she  filled  his  cup.  "  It  is  that  he  thinks  so 
much  his  stomach  is  disturbed." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  sudden  smile  at  her. 

"  P'tit  ange,"  muttered  Margot.  "  Not  one  of  those  gen- 
tlemen can  ever  make  him  what  he  is.  Monsieur  has  fin- 
ished?" she  added,  cutting  off  the  question  he  was  prepar- 
ing. 


66  SUCCESSION 

"  Yes — it  was  very  good.     Margot " 

"  Va-t-en,"  said  the  cook  brusquely.  "  I  have  to  go  to 
Monsieur." 

Antoine  had  not  heard  the  bell ;  but  he  abandoned  inquiry 
as  to  the  gentlemen  alluded  to,  and  went  to  his  occupations. 

Antoine  started  early  on  his  voyage  of  discovery,  accord- 
ing to  direction  on  the  post  card,  or  rather  the  lack  of  it.  It 
was  fortunate  he  did  so.  He  had  reached  the  fountain  in 
the  garden  before  he  remembered  that  Philip  had  told  him 
to  bring  his  violin.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  went 
back  for  it.  His  magnificent  brother  had  a  way  of  putting 
a  request  carelessly,  and  then  falling  on  him  as  if  he  had 
broken  a  law  if  he  disobeyed.  He  wanted  at  all  costs  to 
please  Philip,  whom  his  family  had  hardly  seen  of  late. 
Having  got  the  violin,  and  reached  the  house  near  St  Ger- 
main, where  Philip's  principal  acquaintance  dwelt,  he  learnt 
that  M.  de  Lussac  was  out,  having  gone  "  chez  M.  Os- 
trowski." 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  lives.  Monsieur  Ostrowski  ?  " 
said  Antoine,  one  eyebrow  lifted,  to  the  concierge.  He  had 
begun  to  be  amused. 

The  concierge  did  not  know  precisely ;  but  it  was  some- 
where on  the  hill  near  the  church  of  St  Stephen,  because 
MM.  Ostrowski  and  Jespersen  went  by  the  name  of  the 
Mountaineers. 

"  Has  Monsieur  Edgell  been  here  to-day?  "  asked  Antoine. 

The  concierge  thought  not.  There  were  many  students, 
of  course.    What  was  he  like,  M.  Edgell? 

He  was  very  tall,  ''  rase  a  I'anglais,"  with  a  little  accent 
in  French. 

"  Le  bel  anglais?  "  Oh  yes,  the  concierge  knew  him.  He 
had  spent  the  previous  evening  with  M.  de  Lussac,  on  the 
sixth  floor,  climbing  on  the  roof.  Which  was  not  safe, 
especially  at  night,  when  one  has,  like  M.  de  Lussac,  taken 
wine.    But  was  he,  the  concierge,  responsible,  if  the  students 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        67 

killed  themselves  by  falling  in  the  court?    The  same  gentle- 
i  man  had  come  lately  to  fetch  M.  de  Lussac,  he  added, 
i       Antoine  thanked  him  and  resumed  his  journey,  retracing 
I  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  "  the  hill."    So  Philip's  impor- 
i  tant  engagement  had  been  exploring  the  roofs  of  the  arron- 
dissement  with  Andre  de  Lussac.    It  certainly  accounted  for 
;  his  not  turning  up  at  the  concert.    He  marched  on,  recross- 
I  ing  the  great  streets  in  turn,  extremely  attentive  to  traffic  for 
'■•  once,  for  he  bore  within  the  case  he  carried  a  life  more 
precious  than  his  own.    It  had  begun  to  rain,  so  he  hugged 
the  violin  up  under  his  rough  cape,  and  putting  up  the  hood, 
looked  like  fifty  other  little  Parisians  of  his  age,  who  were 
scouring  the  busy  streets.    He  was  completely  vague,  when 
he  attained  the  church,  as  to  what  next  step  he  ought  to 
take,  and  having  skirted  round  the  Place  to  the  rear  of  the 
Pantheon  building,  stood  staring  at  the  tall  houses  doubt- 
fully.   Then  he  turned  suddenly  to  an  old  woman  who  sold 
post  cards  at  the  corner,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  two 
students  pass  that  way  within  the  last  hour,  one  very  short, 
and  one  very  tall  and  beautiful. 

But  yes,  the  old  woman  had.  Most  certainly,  monsieur ; 
and  they  had  entered  the  corner  house  where  live  the  noisy 
gentlemen  all  together.  Antoine  thanked  her  warmly,  grate- 
ful as  he  had  never  been  for  his  conspicuous  brother,  and 
proceeded  to  the  corner  house  referred  to,  where  he  inquired 
quite  gaily  for  M.  Ostrowski. 

It  was  not  well  received.  The  caretaker  regarded  him 
coldly  and  asked  if  he  were  a  model. 

"  No,"  said  Antoine,  with  some  indignation.    "  I  wish  to 
|,  visit  hrin,  and  he  doesn't  paint." 

"  Pardon."  The  woman  relaxed  a  little.  Monsieur  had 
looked  Italian  in  the  obscurity  of  the  hood.  M.  Ostrowski 
was  so  violent  when  more  models  arrived  than  M.  Jespersen 
had  asked  for.  They  were  violent  gentlemen — and  noisy ! — • 
the  house  was  not  worth  living  in.  Had  they  not  had  her 
out  of  bed  at  three  that  morning,  singing  in  the  street  to 
wake  the  neighbourhood? 


68  SUCCESSION 

In  fact,  if  Antoine  chose  to  mount  to  the  top  storey,  his 
life  was  in  his  own  hands. 

Antoine  chose,  and  climbed  rather  wearily,  for  the  violin 
and  the  wet  cloak  were  heavy  in  combination.  It  was  an 
old  house,  dank  and  dirty.  There  were  three  doors  on  the 
last  landing,  which  was  extremely  badly  lighted.  Antoine 
got  his  breath,  and  then,  hearing  voices  loud  upraised  and 
the  tinkle  of  a  piano  behind  one  of  the  doors,  he  rapped  it 
boldly.  The  tumult  within  ceased,  and  the  door  swung 
open.  There  were  a  number  of  young  men  in  the  room, 
which  was  so  smoky  that  he  could  distinguish  for  a  moment 
no  faces.  Then  he  saw  Andre  de  Lussac  on  the  piano-stool, 
and  advanced  to  him,  holding  out  his  hand.  He  wavered, 
for  the  silence  at  his  entrance  was  alarming.  Then  he  re- 
coiled, for  the  whole  room  fell  on  him  as  one  man. 

Andre,  giving  the  lead,  snatched  a  newspaper  from  the 
pianotop  and  cried  "  Bravo."  The  room  echoed  it  in  the 
accents  of  four  nations  following  it  up  with  the  students' 
salvo  of  applause.  A  fair  Swede — Jespersen  presumably — 
taking  the  visitor's  right  hand,  relieved  it  gently  of  the 
violin.  Ostrowski,  surging  from  the  mist  on  Antoine's  left 
like  an  ungainly  windmill,  seized  himself,  and,  lifting  him 
like  a  baby,  set  him  in  the  great  chair  on  the  model  throne 
where  he  had  himself  been  lounging,  and  seating  himself 
alongside  on  the  arm,  grasped  him  cordially  by  both  his 
hands. 

The  wave  of  genuine  and  impetuous  enthusiasm  in  that 
mixed  company  of  easy-going  youths  had  something  in  it 
fine  and  sweeping  that  brought  the  tears  to  Antoine's  eyes, 
laughing  as  he  was.  He  was  not  exactly  astonished  at  it, 
for  a  show  of  frank  feeling  never  astonished  him,  though 
it  had  taken  him  unawares.  The  Paris  student  is  rather  a 
dangerous  specimen  of  his  kind — hot-blooded,  cool-headed, 
a  tough  customer  to  defeat  or  deceive ;  but  his  appreciation 
of  a  good  thing,  when  found,  is  abundant  and  hearty.  Out 
of  the  nine  men  or  boys  in  this  room,  of  whom  six  were 
French,  the  only  one  apparently  unmoved  was  the  English- 


THE    RATS  — AND   DUCHATEL        69 

man,  Philip;  and  Philip  was  motionless  chiefly  from 
amazement. 

He  had  heard  enough  of  Antoine  lately,  and  resented 
rather  the  freedom  with  which  his  artistic  acquaintance 
bandied  his  name.  To-day  he  had  read  impatiently  the  ar- 
ticles that  his  friends  thrust  into  his  hands,  unable  to  adjust 
his  ideas  to  the  fact  that  his  young  brother  could  make  such 
a  sudden  stride  to  fame.  It  was  "  push,"  it  was  "  blague  " 
— ^journalists'  folly:  a  part  of  it  must  be.  Ostrowski,  al- 
ways a  person  of  whims  and  extravagances,  told  the  room 
generally  and  individually  his  opinion  of  the  last  new  player. 
De  Lussac,  whom  Philip  considered  a  much  better  critic, 
allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  on  hearsay,  and  regretted 
ardently  that  he  had  not  been  there  to  add  to  the  noise.  The 
confrerie  of  Rats,  in  de  Lussac's  opinion,  had  not  done  half 
enough,  particularly  considering  that  the  performer  was,  so 
to  speak,  a  relative.  He  proceeded  to  explain  what  they 
might  have  done  that  they  omitted,  to  cheer  up  the  second 
recital. 

"  No  use,  mon  cher,"  said  Ostrowski.  "  There  is  a  refine- 
ment, a  sacre  intimite,  about  that  plastered  little  feminine 
salon  that  restricts  all  one's  natural  ebullitions.  We  teased 
him  at  the  end  a  little  for  Edgell's  sake,  but  he  only  laughed 
at  us.  He  has  a  genial  way  of  laughing  that  is  discouraging. 
It  is  almost — almost  as  though  he  did  not  take  us  seriously." 

"  He  shall  to-night,"  said  de  Lussac,  who  loved  a  dem- 
onstration. 

"  He'll  hardly  come  now,"  said  the  sober  Swede,  who  was 
busily  engaged  with  his  sketch-book.  "  I  expect  Edgell 
gave  him  the  wrong  address.  Edgell,  for  Lord's  sake,  keep 
still." 

Philip,  who  was  the  temporary  model,  swung  up.  "  I 
gave  him  no  address  at  all,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "  I've  just 
remembered.    What  a  joke!" 

"A  joke?"   Ostrowski  cried. 

"  I  mentioned  your  name,  of  course ;  but  the  other  side 
of  the  Pantheon,  you're  less  known.     What  will  he  do?" 


70  SUCCESSION 

"  He'll  only  think  you  don't  want  to  see  him,"  said  his 
intimate  de  Liissac  at  the  piano.  "  And  he'll  not  be  far 
wrong." 

"  You're  jealous,"  cried  another  dear  friend  called  Char- 
pentier. 

"  The  English,"  called  Ostrowski,  "  do  not  love  their  rela- 
tions or  their  wives.    They  only  love  their  horses." 

"  The  passion  for  pure  art,"  appended  Jespersen's  fine 
bass,  "  is  unknown  among  them.  Edgell,  get  your  nose 
round,  can't  you?    I  want  it  against  the  chair-back." 

"  The  raging  apaches,"  pursued  Andre,  "  are  thick  in  the 
streets  around  our  home.  The  poor  child  will  get  lost  look- 
ing for  you,  and  have  his  throat  cut  into  the  bargain." 

"  And  we  shall  never  hear  him  play  again,"  said  Os- 
trowski. 

It  was  somewhere  about  this  point,  as  indicated,  that 
Antoine  actually  came.  During  the  acclamation  at  his  en- 
trance Philip,  deep  in  his  fireside  chair,  did  not  move;  and 
the  boy,  searching  the  room  by  flashes  through  the  smoke 
and  shifting  figures,  missed  him  altogether.  He  was  late, 
and  thought  Philip  might  be  gone.  He  asked  a  question, 
but  was  not  heard  in  the  clamour,  and  settling  back  in  his 
seat,  Antoine  turned  his  attention  perforce  to  his  admirers. 
Philip  was  surprised  at  the  natural  ease  with  which  he  took 
the  ovation.  He  sat  sidelong  in  his  conspicuous  position, 
just  as  Ostrowski  had  dropped  him  down,  the  folds  of  his 
short  blue  cloak  falling  round  him  like  a  royal  mantle.  He 
listened  with  his  eyes  fixed  attentively  on  Ostrowski,  whose 
extreme  volubility,  combined  with  his  odd  accent,  made  his 
wit  difficult  to  appreciate.  Antoine  was  served  on  all  hands 
with  food,  and  introduced  to  six  people  at  once ;  but  he  did 
not  lose  his  head  for  a  minute.  He  chose  what  he  wanted  to 
eat  with  gravity,  and  answered  when  necessary — and  pos- 
sible— with  a  kind  of  conscientious  grace,  as  though  half 
nature,  half  a  lesson  he  had  learnt.  He  was,  moreover,  en- 
joying it  extremely,  and  Philip  heard  his  little  giggle  con- 


i 


THE    R  A  T  S  —  A  N  D    D  U  C  II  A  T  E  L        71 

stantly  in  the  pauses,  as  M.  Ostrowski,  with  an  air  of  god- 
like disposition,  laid  his  friends  at  his  feet. 

"  Charpentier  and  Robert  having  heard,  Monsieur,  ap- 
preciate you  sufficiently.  Robert,  whose  voice  will  never 
make  his  fortune,  narrowly  escaped  the  police  by  singing 
the  presto  of  Duchatel  beneath  these  windows  at  two  o'clock 
this  morning.  It  was  not  well  sung — you  play  it  better. 
That  is  de  Lussac,  who,  being  fat,  and  slow  after  meals, 
did  not  hear  you,  and  now  mourns  the  omission.  De  Lussac 
is  the  least  interesting  of  our  community,  though  of  excel- 
lent family.  His  ancestors — oh,  you  know  him ;  then  we 
had  better  pass  hastily  to  Jespersen.  Jespersen,  of  whom 
I  am  the  best  friend  and  worst  critic,  is  principally  cel- 
ebrated by  having  painted  your  brother  for  the  Salon. 
Knowing  your  brother,  I  need  not  tell  you  it  was  painted 
behind  his  back.  For  pure  imagination,  I  have  rarely  seen 
a  portrait  to  equal  it.  But  it  is  finely  conceived,  with  plenty 
of  green  on  the  lower  jaw,  which  is  what  the  Salon  demands 
this  year.  Cornichon,  whose  real  name  I  have  temporarily 
forgotten,  is  a  man  with  a  past,  but  unmusical.  You,  hav- 
ing a  future,  will  sympathise." 

"  Really,  Ostrowski,"  said  the  last-named,  as  the  Russian 
paused  to  save  Antoine's  cup.  "  It's  very  polite  of  him  to 
laugh.    I  think  you  are  offensive." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Ostrowski ;  "  but  I  don't  offend.  Mousse 
there  has  an  appetising  name,  but  little  else  to  recommend 
him.  The  other  Charpentier  I  should  have  mentioned  be- 
fore, but  he  was  lost  behind  the  samovar.  He  is  far  the 
most  distinguished  of  us,  as  well  as  the  oldest,  but  he  makes 
little  noise  and  so  we  forget  him.  That  is  my  samovar,  and 
here  am  I,  your  servant.  The  rest" — he  made  a  gesture 
into  the  void — "  are  known  to  you." 

"  Philippe  is  there?"  said  Antoine,  making  a  movement, 
lie  still  could  not  believe  it. 

"  Oh,  certainly.  Only  his  susceptibility  is  such,  that  he 
is  more  shy  for  you  than  you  are  yourself.  Oh,  don't  move. 
He  really  isn't  worth  it."    The  Russian  youth  swung  to  his 


^2  .  SUCCESSION 

feet  as  Antoine  got  up,  just  saving  their  common  chair  from 
capsizing  by  the  movement.  He  was  laughing,  but  his  eyes 
were  keenly  fixed  on  the  pair  from  his  post  of  vantage  above 
their  heads. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Antoine  to  Philip.  "  I  thought  you 
had  not  come  perhaps." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  have  come?  "  said  Philip,  barely  greet- 
ing him.  "  You're  precious  late.  I  shall  have  to  go  direct- 
ly." He  spoke  English,  regardless  of  the  audience,  of  whom 
few  could  follow  the  language.  Ostrowski  and  de  Lussac 
exchanged  a  glance,  as  the  boy  continued  in  French. 

"  I  could  not  find  the  house.  I  had  to  ask  a  lot  of 
people." 

"  I've  told  you  heaps  of  times  where  Ostrowski  lives," 
said  Philip. 

"  Rot,"  said  Charpentier  audibly. 

"  It  was  extraordinarily  clever  of  him  to  find  us  at  all," 
declared  Jespersen,  "  but  we  haven't  mentioned  it." 

"  We  left  out  heaps  of  things,"  moaned  Andre,  his  head 
against  the  piano. 

"  He  has  the  effect,"  said  Ostrowski,  gently  and  clearly, 
"  of  dazzling  the  intelligence." 

"  Oh — they  are  silly."  The  boy  collapsed  again,  resting 
one  hand  on  the  chimneypiece.  "  I  must  go  soon  too,"  he 
said  to  Philip.  "  I  will  come  with  you."  So  speaking  he 
swept  a  shy,  half-apologetic  look  about  the  room. 

"  I  cannot  see,"  said  Andre  to  the  nearest  friend,  "  why 
we  should  be  punished  for  Edgell's  idiocy?  " 

"  I  am  sure  we  all  apologise  for  such  an  unexpected  over- 
sight," said  another  Rat  with  emphasis. 

"  If  he  would  grant  us  ten  minutes  more,"  said  Char- 
pentier, "  it  shall  not  occur  again." 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  Monsieur  Antoine,  if  you  love  me," 
murmured  Jespersen,  whose  pencil  was  continuously  oc- 
cupied. 

The  boy  looked  from  one  to  another  while  they  spoke. 
"  I  must  go,"  he  murmured. 


i 


THE   RATS  — AND   DUCHATEL        73 

Ostrovvski  was  silent,  but  Charpentier  said,  "  Why  must 


you 


Antoine  hesitated ;  but  PhiHp  would  not  help  him,  so  he 
had  to  speak.  "  Because  I  cannot  see  him  often  now,"  he 
said  to  the  last  questioner.  "  You  know  how  that  is,  when 
two  people  are  busy." 

Charpentier  and  de  Lussac  both  opened  their  mouths; 
but  before  words  could  emerge  thence,  Ostrowski  had  a 
hand  before  each. 

"  Taisez-vous,  freres,"  he  said,  low  and  clear  as  before. 
"  We  must  protect  him,  though  it  be  we  who  suffer." 

"  We  will,"  said  the  Rats  as  one  man.  In  the  dead  silence 
that  ensued,  Antoine  gazed  at  them  inquiring  and  a  little 
alarmed,  Jespersen  sketched  with  concentration,  and  Philip's 
set  face  slowly  relaxed. 

"  You  are  a  set  of  fools,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  Can't  you 
see,"  he  added  to  Antoine,  "  what  they  want  is  for  you  to 
play  ?    You'd  better  hurry  up  and  get  it  over." 

There  was  a  faint  cry  of  protest  from  the  gravely  watch- 
ing herd.  The  guest  had  blushed,  and  stood  wavering.  "  It 
is  so  late,"  he  said,  rather  low.    "  I — am  sorry." 

"  For  heaven's  sake  don't  apologise,"  cried  the  Russian, 
striding  forward  on  the  word.  "  Edgell's  manners  are  al- 
ways insufferable." 

"  You  have  to  put  things  clear  with  him,"  Philip  retorted. 
"  You  might  pile  up  hints  for  hours,  and  he'd  never  take 
one  of  'em.  Get  along,  kid,"  he  added,  sitting  down.  "  I 
can  stop  ten  minutes,  if  you're  quick." 

He  put  his  arms  behind  his  head,  and  looked  at  Os- 
trowski ;  the  two  were  rivals,  both  in  the  schools  and  at 
home,  and  hardly  ever  ceased  sparring.  Antoine  was  un- 
aware of  it,  and  his  doubts  were  not  diminished  by  the 
temper  in  Philip's  tone. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  as  the  artist,  rising,  proffered  his 
stool.  He  looked  at  him  in  the  same  wide-eyed  perplexity, 
and  Jespersen,  collapsing  upon  the  seat,  added  the  ex- 
pression to  the  sketch  he  had  been  touching  at  intervals. 


74  SUCCESSION 

After  a  minute,  the  boy  advanced  to  his  violin.  The 
circle  of  young  men  drew  back  from  the  model  throne  by 
common  consent,  and  he  occupied  it  without  embarrass- 
ment. Having  tuned  and  looked  about  him,  he  offered 
Duchatel's  last  movement,  and  the  audience  thanked  him 
fervently. 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  him,  really,"  said  Ostrowski,  who 
stood  for  a  minute  by  Philip's  chair  on  the  hearth;  and 
Philip  saw  that  he  was  flushed.  In  spite  of  himself  the 
spirit  of  the  company  began  to  affect  him,  and  the  im- 
pression, once  made,  grew  rapidly.  The  Russian  left  him 
and  went  to  the  piano,  for  Andre,  at  the  first  mention  of  the 
composer's  name,  fell  backwards  on  to  the  sofa  off  the 
stool ;  and  Philip  attended  to  Duchatel's  presto  with  none 
to  observe,  which  was  as  well.  He  was  more  boulevcrse 
than  the  composer  had  been,  far  more  than  he  cared  to  show. 
Yet  the  boy  was  playing  no  more  beautifully  or  delicately 
than  he  had  heard  him  a  hundred  times,  in  private  and 
semi-public  life ;  only  the  situation  had  changed.  He  was 
angry  with  the  fellows  for  making  him  see  it,  for  pressing 
upon  him  the  fact  of  this  subtle  transformation.  They 
stood  for  the  public,  the  larger  world  that  exists  even  with- 
out the  Latin  quarter.  While  he  fooled  with  Andre  upon 
the  roofs  last  night,  this  world  had  stolen  a  march  upon 
him,  and  that  windbag  Ostrowski  as  well.  They  had  all 
"  got  there  "  before  him,  who  should  surely  have  been  first. 
It  was  a  painful  thing  to  realise,  for  a  person  of  Philip's 
importance ;  and  he  may  be  excused  if  he  spent  some  time 
and  temper  in  fighting  the  conviction. 

He  hurried  the  boy  away  brusquely  when  he  nad  finished, 
with  no  further  apology.  Antoine,  beyond  a  smile  or  two, 
had  nothing  more  to  offer,  and  seemed  ready  enough  to  go. 
When  he  stepped  off  the  model  throne,  the  audience  stood 
up,  and  took  leave  of  him  formally,  each  in  his  fashion. 
Only  M.  Ostrowski,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  had  a  word 
from  him. 

"  Au  revoir,  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "  The  Rats  will  not 
forget." 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        75 

Antoine  said  that  it  was  good  of  him  to  play.  M.  Os- 
trowski  bowed. 

"  I'll  work  it  up  a  bit,"  he  said.    "  I  am  out  of  practice." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  boy  cordially,  and  went. 

"Are  you  aware  you  told  Paul  he  was  out  of  practice?  " 
said  Philip,  when  they  were  in  the  street. 

"  Hein  ?  "  said  Antoine.  "  Oh  well — he  is.  But  he  has 
played  well,  once.  Am  I  very  late  ?  "  he  added  quickly.  "  I 
said  five  to  my  uncle." 

"  It's  after  six,"  said  Philip. 

"  Psst !  "  said  the  boy,  grimacing.  He  might  have  offered 
the  remark  to  the  rain,  for  it  was  pouring  again  smartly. 
"  I  will  take  the  tram,"  he  observed,  "  because  of  this  violin. 
You  will  come  too?  "  He  sent  a  shy  glance  sidelong  at  his 
distinguished  brother. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Philip  calmly.  "  I  always  intended  to 
come  to  dinner.  No  one  works  at  this  time  of  day — serious 
work."  He  looked  severely  at  Antoine,  who  made  no  re- 
mark, though  his  eyebrows  were  moving  about.  "  What's 
for  dinner,  do  you  know?  " 

Antoine  knew  approximately,  having  spent  a  period  in 
the  kitchen  that  morning.  "  No  place  like  home,"  said 
Philip  thoughtfully.  "  Grandpapa  never  did  a  better  day's 
work  than  when  Margot  fell  in  love  with  him.  I  say — how 
is  grandpapa?" 

"  Better,  since  yesterday.  He  was  ill,  yesterday  morn- 
ing," said  the  boy,  frowning.  "  I  could  not  bear,  how  he 
looked.  I  think  he  has  sometimes  dreadful  nights,  do  you 
see?  But  he  won't  say  anything;  he  just  waits  in  there  till 
it  goes  better — then  he  comes  to  talk." 

"  Has  he  talked  to  you  to-day?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  I  have  seen  him  more  to-day,"  said  Antoine, 
reckoning,  "  than  I  have  for  three  years." 

"  Rot,"  said  Philip. 

"  Yes.     Since  I  was  eleven." 

"Haven't  you  seen  him  this  last  fortnight?" 


'je  SUCCESSION 

"  No — only  to  say  good-night.  He  has  been  always  a  lit- 
tle ill,  you  see." 

"  And  you've  been  always  a  little  busy."  The  boy  admitted 
it  with  a  faint  shrug.  "  I  shall  be  de  trop,  I  perceive,"  said 
Philip.    "  Very  good,  I'll  go  home  again — after  dinner." 

Antoine  gave  him  a  close  glance,  as  he  always  did  before 
registering  such  a  remark  as  pleasantry;  only,  the  jester 
perceived,  he  had  no  smile.  They  were  by  this  time  in  the 
tram,  and  the  boy  leant  back  as  though  glad  of  the  rest,  and 
the  excuse  for  silence.  Philip  told  himself  he  had  been 
making  conversation,  and  tried  to  scoff  at  him  for  artificial- 
ity, as  he  had  tried  to  do  lately  when  he  faced  the  students. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  felt  the  new  barrier,  the  thing 
that  had  grown  while  he  slept,  very  keenly ;  and  he  was  both 
impressed,  and  a  little  ashamed. 

There  could  be  no  serious  doubt  that  M.  Lemaure  was 
pleased  to  see  Philip. 

"  Both  of  them,"  he  said,  holding  out  a  hand.  "  That  is 
right.    Margot  will  be  delighted,  Phil." 

"  I  just  glanced  into  the  kitchen  in  passing,"  said  Philip, 
sitting  down  by  him,  "  and  Margot  and  I  exchanged  a  wink. 
Her  face  lit  up — I  think  that's  the  proper  expression.  She 
looked  low — as  if  none  of  you  had  l3een  eating  lately." 

"  I  fear  Margot's  arts  have  been  wasted  on  me,"  said  M. 
Lemaure.  "  But  you  she  can  count  upon  in  any  emergency. 
You  will  take  your  uncle's  place  at  dinner,  eh  ?  His  idea  of 
a  holiday  is  to  work  for  me  all  day  long  at  the  library.  He 
must  have  found  more  to  do  than  he  thought.  Perhaps  that 
is  where  you  should  have  been,  useful  little  boy."  His  eye 
turned  to  Antoine,  who  had  not  sat  down. 

"  He  said  he  did  not  want  me.  I  was  to  stay  with  you," 
he  replied. 

"  Lucien  mentioned  that,  eh?  Well,  I  like  at  least  to 
know  where  you  are,  in  order  to  inform  the  world." 

"  You're  getting  precious  at  last,  ducky,"  commented 
Philip,  very  comfortable  on  the  sofa.    "  Value  going  up  in 


THE   RATS  — AND    DUCIIATEL        ^^ 

the  market.  Better  get  him  a  collar  and  address,  grandpapa, 
in  case  he  gets  mislaid." 

"  Insolent,"  said  the  old  man,  clasping  Philip's  hand 
rather  closely;  whereupon  it  occurred  to  that  gentleman 
that  his  wit  was  not  wanted  for  the  moment,  and  he  held 
his  tongue.  The  younger  boy  still  stood  as  though  waiting, 
the  violin  held  in  both  hands  by  the  fire,  drying  it  deliber- 
ately while  he  warmed  himself.  So  held,  his  grandfather's 
eyes  could  not  miss  it.    "  You  took  that  out  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  played  to  them  down  there,"  said  Antoine. 

"  To  whom?  Not  the  boys ?  "  There  was  a  pause.  "  Do 
not  again  without  telling  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  with  a 
manner  Philip  hardly  knew.  Antoine  received  the  rebuke 
without  perceptible  surprise,  though  he  was  still  stationary 
for  a  moment. 

"  You  have  been  alone?  "  he  asked  then,  turning. 

"  No.  Several  people  came.  Victor  Duchatel  was  one," 
he  proceeded  at  leisure. 

"  Oh  " — the  boy  bit  his  lip — "  and  my  uncle  was  not 
there?  " 

"  He  did  not  ask  for  Lucien.  He  sought  you,  to  thank. 
He  should  have  done  so  last  night,  he  said,  but  he  had  no 
chance  to  stay.  He  is  a  charming  person — I  wish  I  could 
repeat  some  of  the  things  he  said,  but  my  memory  is  so  bad. 
You  should  have  been  present  yourself." 

"  Yes.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  could  go  to  see  him  " — the 
boy  hesitated — "  on  Sunday." 

"  That  would  do  very  well,"  said  his  grandfather.  "  Do 
not  forget.  Those,"  he  signalled  to  some  cards  on  the  shelf 
against  which  Antoine  was  leaning,  "  are  the  others,  whom 
I  did  not  see.  I  fear  I  refused  Monsieur  Bertrand  even, 
or  IMargot  did  so  for  me.  He  wrote  that  beautiful  sentence 
on  his  card." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  was  not  there,"  said  the  boy  again,  still 
facing  the  fire.  He  had  barely  glanced  at  the  manager's 
message. 

"  He'll  cry  in  a  minute,"  remarked  Philip.    "  You  needn't 


78  SUCCESSION 

scold  him,  grandpapa.  I  sent  him  about  a  mile  out  of  his 
way  to  start  with.    That  naturally  wasted  a  little  time." 

"  I  had  better  begin  by  scolding,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 
"  Then  we  shall  have  it  done.  There  are  many  things  now 
to  consider — an  increasing  number."  He  kept  a  penetrating 
look  upon  the  boy,  the  look  of  the  surgical  expert  testing 
the  effects  of  work  that  must  be  painful.  "  Of  course,"  he 
pursued,  in  his  easiest  social  tone,  "  one  might  say  his  rela- 
tions stood  first ;  only " 

"All  right,"  said  Philip  calmly.  "You  needn't  go  on. 
I've  been  a  rag  for  hours." 

"  You  ?  "  said  his  grandfather.  But  the  look  he  turned 
on  Antoine's  nearest  relation  showed  that  he  was  not  with- 
out a  very  complete  grasp  of  the  state  of  things. 

Philip  had  it  out  with  him  later,  for  he  dismissed  Antoine 
to  bed  very  soon  after  dinner.  Philip  noticed  that  he  treated 
the  patient  with  marked  gentleness  after  the  operation  was 
completed,  though  he  did  not  address  him  much.  His  eyes, 
as  usual,  were  chiefly  occupied  with  the  elder  boy,  whose 
every  word  and  movement  brought  back  the  spoiled 
daughter  he  had  adored.  Philip's  faults  were  if  possible 
dearer  to  him  than  his  virtues,  since  the  latter  were  inherited 
from  the  English  side,  and,  to  his  grandfather's  mind, 
seemed  a  trifle  commonplace.  But  at  least  he  had  never  had 
to  complain  of  any  lack  of  affection  in  him ;  Philip  showed 
even  a  kind  of  childish  softness  when  they  were  completely 
private — a  manner  of  the  other  race  to  which  the  old  man 
had  no  objection.  As  for  Philip,  he  quite  liked  a  little  con- 
fession in  his  company. 

"  I  have  one  left  to  console  me,"  M.  Lemaure  said,  as 
they  settled  tcte-a-tcte  in  comfort  after  the  little  meal. 
"  You  did  well  to  come  back  with  him,  my  dear.  I  think  it 
will  soon  pass." 

"  What,  grandpapa?  " 

"  But  I  remember  it  myself.  He  feels  entrapped — we  are 
his  enemies  for  the  moment.    He  has  been  so  free,  has  he 


THE   RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        79 

not?  Of  old  I  gave  him  his  freedom  consciously,  suspecting 
this  time  would  come.'' 

"  You  suspected,  then  ?  " 

"There  were  signs,  to  my  mind,  that  he  would  not  stop 
halfway.  And  it  is  forward  now,  for  him.  There  is  no 
looking  back." 

"  I  think  he  is  very  plucky,"  said  Philip  almost  angrily. 

"  En  effet,  he  is.    These  little  panics  are  nothing." 

"  He  looks  frightfully  delicate,  grandpapa." 

"  Do  you  think  so  too  ?  " 

"  Yes — more  every  time  I  see  him." 

"  It  makes  no  difference,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  after  the 
pause.  "  He  may  get  stronger  as  he  gets  older.  This  is  such 
a  difficult  age,  in  any  case." 

"  Was  it  for  you  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  I  ?  "  His  grandfather  laughed.  "  I  was  always  strong, 
tough  as  leather.  Nothing  could  tire  me.  I  should  not  be 
alive  now,  otherwise." 

Philip  considered  for  a  space,  screwing  his  eyes  at  the 
fire.  In  his  devotion  to  microscopic  work  he  had  managed 
to  strain  his  sight.  He  had  lost  his  looks  a  little,  during 
this,  the  first  period  of  his  life  of  real  mental  stress ;  but 
he  had  gained  simultaneously  in  other  ways,  which  no  artist 
of  humanity  would  disdain.  He  had  assumed  a  little  sci- 
entific briskness,  and  was  less  elaborate  in  his  ordinary  deal- 
ings ;  though  he  had  never  been  that  with  M.  Lemaure, 
having  probably  strong  suspicions  that  it  was  useless. 

"  Lord,"  he  ejaculated,  after  a  period,  with  pleasing  frank- 
ness. "  Antoine  did  make  a  fool  of  me  before  the  fellows 
down  there.  If  he'd  studied  for  a  year  he  couldn't  have 
done  it  better.  He  simply  said  all  the  right  things,  with  all 
tlic  proper  pauses ;  and  I  hadn't  even  the  common-sense  to 
follow  his  lead." 

"  He  should  not  have  played,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  slightly 
smiling. 

"  That  was  my  fault  too.  Everything  was,  I  tell  you. 
You  were  quite  unfair  to  bully  him,  you  know." 


8o  SUCCESSION 

"  No,  no.  He  must  learn  his  lessons,  while  there  is  a 
chance.  It  saves  suffering  later.  Lucien  would  be  vexed  if 
he  knew  of  it." 

"It's  because  of  my  uncle  you  mind  then,  is  it?"  said 
Philip. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  Only  when  his 
grandson  seized  his  shoulders,  he  had  to  unbend. 

"Look  here,"  said  Philip.  "Why  don't  you  scold  me? 
You  never  do." 

"  I  will  try,  if  you  Hke,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  There  must 
be  something,  if  I  consider." 

"  No,"  said  Philip.  "  I  don't  matter  enough,  that's  the 
fact.  I  don't  have  reporters  crawling  after  me,  and  man- 
ager swells  writing  compliments  on  their  cards.  You've 
probably  not  even  noticed  how  little  I've  been  to  see  you 
lately." 

"  Yes,  I  have  noticed  it.  I  thought — poor  child,  how 
hard  he  works." 

"  Well,  you  thought  wrong.  I  could  have  come  up  al- 
most any  day." 

"  You  could  not  have  found  me,  my  dear,  almost  any 
day." 

"  I  know  that  too,  from  Antoine.  It  makes  it  worse." 
With  that,  Philip  put  on  his  glasses,  the  better  to  investigate. 
M.  Lemaure  made  no  objection  to  the  proceeding,  and  an- 
swered almost  all  his  questions  quietly.  Philip  was  a  serious 
student ;  such  details  were  therefore  his  right,  and  rights. 
he  always  regarded. 

"  The  remarkable  thing,  really,"  he  said,  "  is  that  I  have 
these  days  of  ease.  I  even  slept  after  lunch  while  the  little 
one  read  to  me,  a  compliment  of  which  I  hope  he  was  un- 
iaware.    Have  you  studied  me  sufficiently,  Phil?  " 

"  I'm  never  sure  if  you're  speaking  the  truth."  said 
Philip.  "You  lie  so  awfully  well.  I  mean,  of  course — ifi 
you  did  lie,  you  would  do  it  well." 

"Thank  you — I  hope  so,"  said  his  grandfather.     "Ah, 


THE   RATS  — AND   DUCHATEL        8i 

yes,  my  pulse  if  you  like.  I  rather  enjoy  your  fingers — the 
liand  of  nuisic  nianqucc." 

"  You  can't  offend  me  Hke  that,"  said  Phihp,  with  scorn. 

"  I  am  charmed  to  hear  it."  He  asked  him  about  his 
work  for  some  time  with  close  interest  and  understanding; 
and  Philip  regaled  him  in  return  with  students'  stories.  He 
had  long  given  up  trying  to  shock  his  grandfather  with  the 
semi-medical  gossip,  which  is  apt  to  be  strong  meat  for  the 
amateur  stomach.  So  long  as  it  was  not  either  brutal  or 
stupid,  such  entertainment  was  sure  to  have  a  good  recep- 
tion ;  and  Philip  had  learnt  to  tell  cleverly,  largely  owing  to 
this  present  critic,  even  when  using  the  language  that  was 
to  him  the  less  familiar  of  the  pair  he  had  by  birth. 

"  Don't  stop  with  me  if  you  have  business,  Phil,"  M.  Le- 
maure  said  at  last,  as  his  grandson  lay  silent  in  meditation, 
pulling  the  hairs  of  a  moustache  that  was  really  not  yet 
visible,  but  which  it  was  his  aim  to  encourage,  in  order  that 
he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  shaving  it.  "  Lucien  must 
soon  be  in." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Philip,  "  I  had  meant  to  tell 
you.     I  went  to  Savigny's  lecture  on  Thursday." 

"  Aha!  "  His  grandfather  was  interested  at  once.  "  He 
is  back,  then,  our  tyrant." 

"  \^ery  much  so,"  said  Philip.  "  I  say — V\'hat  the  world 
would  be  if  he  had  the  management  of  it.  I  can't  think," 
he  proceeded,  teasing  the  invisible  moustache  lazily,  "  why 
])eople  don't  pick  out  a  great  scientist,  and  a  great  states- 
man, and  a  great  artist — you  would  do — and  give  them  the 
arranging  of  the  world.    They'd  agree,  fast  enough." 

"  Savigny  and  I  should  agree,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  I 
fear  the  other  gentleman  might  think  us  crazy." 

"Crazy?  Savigny's  flatly  reasonable;  and  he  has  hun- 
dreds of  living  cases  in  evidence  of  everything  he  says." 

"  He  is  convincing,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  But  do  not 
forget  to  reckon  with  his  will-power  on  you." 

"  Grandpapa  !  "  The  boy  looked  a  trifle  taken  aback.  "  He 
can't  hypnotise  an  entire  audience.  There  were  hundreds 
there."' 


82  SUCCESSION 

"  Students — or  the  curious  ?  " 

"  Students  chiefly.     Men  and  women." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.    Did  he  see  you?  '* 

"  Yes.     I  got  hold  of  him  afterwards." 

"  Did  he  ask  about  us  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Philip.  ''  He  knew.  He  had  seen  An- 
toine  once  on  an  omnibus,  for  about  three  seconds.  He  said 
he  thought  of  stopping  him,  but  he  looked  too  like  state 
affairs.     How  he  could  have  stopped  him,  on  an  omnibus 

"  Had  him  off  it,"  said  ISI.  Lemaure.  "  You  do  not  know 
half  his  resources.     Well,  what  else?" 

"  He  said  you  could  drop  sending  him  tickets,  because  he 
had  no  time  to  waste  at  concerts.  Then  two  minutes  after 
I  found  he  had  seen  all  the  programmes." 

"  He  approved  them,  I  hope  ?  "     The  musician  laughed. 

"  Let  me  see.  He  said  you  had  better  be  less  conceited, 
and  more  economical." 

]M.  Lemaure  struck  his  hands  together.  "  I  must  tell 
Lucien  he  is  conceited,"  he  exclaimed.  "  That  is  a  com- 
mon reproach  of  his  to  the  boy." 

Philip  glanced  round.  "Is  it?  Does  my  uncle  arrange 
the  programmes  then  ?  " 

"  Entirely." 

"  Savigny  sent  the  message  to  you,"  said  Philip. 

"  Raymond  always  thinks  I  can  manage  Lucien,"  said  M. 
Lemaure.  "  I  wonder  if  we  are  conceited.  He  is  so  often 
right."  He  reached  one  of  Antoine's  programmes  which 
lay  on  the  mantelpiece  and  looked  it  over  thoughtfully. 
"  There  was  nothing  further,  Phil  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  asked  him  when  he  was  coming  to  see  you,  and  he  said 
— when  you  least  expected  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  his  grandfather,  somewhat  perturbed.  "  I 
trust  it  will  not  be  this  week." 

"  You'll  have  to  be  well  in  a  hurry."  scoffed  Philip.  "  All 
of  you.  It  would  be  kind  to  warn  the  kid,  if  he  intends  to 
go  round  looking  like  he  did  to-day." 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        83 

"  No,  no :  do  not  speak  of  it  to  him,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
after  an  absent  pause,  laying  the  programme  back  in  its 
place.  "  Pauvre  petit,  he  has  enough  distractions.  Ray- 
mond is  never  in  a  hurry,  and  we  must  take  our  chance." 

Antoine  stormed  and  conquered  the  fortress  of  Duchatel 
on  Sunday  afternoon.  It  cost  him  some  little  effort,  it  is 
true ;  and  it  would  have  surprised  some  of  Victor's  friends 
that  he  accomplished  it  at  all ;  for  though  the  young  com- 
poser was  decidedly  popular  in  society,  few  visitors  ap- 
proached his  mother's  house. 

Antoine  considered  with  some  anxiety,  on  arriving  at  the 
door  of  their  mansion,  whether  he  ought  to  ask  for  its  mis- 
tress. Old  Madame  Duchatel  had  always  frightened  him, 
when  he  brought  messages  from  his  grandfather  as  a  child. 
In  infancy  she  had  afforded  him,  as  his  mother's  son,  some 
slight  interest,  but  since  then  she  had  happily  forgotten  his 
existence  for  a  considerable  period.  Yet  he  was  aware  he 
was  here  to-day  to  do  the  proper  thing ;  and  as  M.  Lemaure 
had  offered  no  assistance  in  the  matter,  he  had  to  judge  for 
himself.  So  he  gathered  all  his  courage,  and  asked  the 
smart  serving-man  if  Madame  was  at  liberty,  offering  at 
the  same  time  his  grandfather's  card,  on  which  he  had 
scrawled  his  name. 

The  servant  would  see,  and  ushered  him  into  the  salon. 
Its  style  was  severely  elegant,  with  gold-edged  mirrors  and 
a  polished  floor.    Antoine,  who  was  strange  to  elegance  as 

I  such,  grew  more  anxious  as  he  waited.  A  parrot  in  a  cage, 
with  a  strong  resemblance  to  its  mistress,  pecked  at  him 
furiously  when  he  tried  to  make  an  approach ;  and  on  the 
ij  servant's  reappearance,  uttered  a  series  of  shrieks  which 
I  drowned  the  message,  and  made  the  boy  wince  involun- 
|;   tarily. 

ji       "  Pardon,"  he  said.     "  You  were  saying "     The  ser- 

j!   vant  approached  him,  and  explained  through  the  clamour 
I   that  Madame  was   engaged   for  the  moment,   and   seeing 
nobody. 


84  SUCCESSION 

"  Tant  mieux,"'  thought  Antoine.  "  She  is  asleep.  Mon- 
sieur Victor  is  there  perhaps  ?  "  he  queried. 

M.  Victor  was  also  engaged — not  for  the  moment,  but 
permanently,  was  the  implication.  The  man  looked  the  boy 
over  with  slight  curiosity.  He  thought  it  highly  improbable 
his  much-sought  master  would  see  any  boy  who  happened  to 
ask  for  him. 

"It  is  Monsieur ?"  he  suggested. 

Antoine  gave  his  name,  enunciating  clearly.  The  servant 
went  to  Duchatel,  and  informed  him  that  a  young  man 
named  Edgell  was  there  asking  for  him.  He  supposed 
monsieur 

"  Bring  him  at  once  of  course,"  said  Victor.  Whereupon 
the  servant  retired,  and  conducted  Antoine  to  the  beautiful 
little  study,  well  concealed  behind  a  double  portiere  of 
Indian  embroidery,  and  a  soft  swing  door.  Duchatel  came 
right  to  the  door  to  meet  him. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  as  though  he  had  been 
speaking  to  a  stranger  of  his  own  age.  "  This  is  intolerable 
treatment,  and  when  you  had  sent  us  notice  of  your  coming. 
I  thought  my  mother  had  given  orders."  He  shot  the  last 
remark  at  the  offending  servant,  who  stood  wondering. 

"You  are  not  to  be  disturbed,"  suggested  Antoine,  to 
make  things  comfortable.  "  That  is  how  we  do  at  home." 
He  did  not  suppose  smart  servants  could  be  bullied,  and  M. 
Duchatel's  "  Go !  "  surprised  him.  The  man  withdrew  in 
haste,  and  shut  the  door. 

Antoine  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  though  in  re- 
lief at  the  solitude  which  all  those  curtains  secured  him, 
and  obedient  to  his  host's  compelling  hand,  sank  down  be- 
side him  on  the  silken  couch  by  the  fire. 

"  It  is  beautiful  here,"  he  murmured,  wondering.  "  You 
hear  nothing  at  all,  no."  He  looked  round  him  at  the  treas- 
ures of  the  room,  and  then  at  its  fortunate  master. 

"  Monsieur  Antoine,"  said  Duchatel  firmly,  "  you  must 
let  me  thank  you  again.  I  have  not  seen  yourself  since  the 
evening." 


THE   RATS  — AND    DUCHATEL        85 

"  No ;  I  was  out,"  said  the  boy  mechanically.  "  You  were 
good  to  come." 

"  Why  good  ?  "  The  young  man's  eyes  were  looking 
through  him,  for  they  were  facing  each  other  and  close  to- 
gether. He  w-as  a  very  exquisite  person,  Duchatel,  with  the 
society  manner,  and  a  glance  that  was  by  nature  slightly 
supercilious,  to  which  the  requirements  of  nature  rather 
than  fashion  had  attached  a  single  eyeglass.  Yet,  for  all 
this  alarming  surface,  Antoine  exhibited  no  grain  of  the 
shrinking  from  him  that  he  showed  for  Victor's  mother. 
He  knew  his  host  as  well  as  one  can  know  a  person  one  has 
never  addressed.  Since  first  he  secreted  a  score  of  Ducha- 
tel's  at  nine  years  old,  he  had  broken  a  lance  in  his  cause  at 
home,  whenever  a  just  occasion  appeared  to  do  so.  Indeed, 
Antoine  had  been  snubbed  more  times  than  he  would  have 
liked  to  count  on  the  subject  of  the  young  man  he  faced, 
whose  exterior  he  knew  from  portraits  chiefly,  and  a  few 
ill-natured  caricatures. 

"  I  mean,"  he  explained,  "you  are  so  busy." 

"  I  can  pay  my  debts,"  said  Duchatel. 

"  That  was  right  then,"  said  Antoine. 

"  I  had  no  idea  the  last  movement  was  half  so  pretty." 

"And  the  first?" 

"  Courageous  in  the  extreme.  One  never  hoped  to  hear  it 
played  at  all." 

"  Was  it  right  ?  "  the  boy  repeated. 

"  Too  fast,"  said  Victor,  screwing  in  his  eyeglass.  An- 
toine made  a  face. 

"  He  would  not  let  me  any  slower,"  he  confided. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  Victor  equably.  "  He  thought  it 
ugly  enough  as  it  was,  probably." 

"  Grandpapa  did,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Aha!    And  he  thinks  with  grandpapa?  " 

"  But — naturally !  "  signalled  Antoine's  vigorous  gesture 
as  clear  as  words.  He  fell  back  on  the  couch,  and  both  were 
silent  a  minute,  Antoine  a  little  breathless,  for  the  exchange 
had  been  rapid. 


86  SUCCESSION 

"  I  like  your  uncle,"  said  Duchatel,  as  though  starting  a 
new  subject. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Antoine.  "  He  also — oh,  he  told  me  to  say 
some  things  to  you  when  I  came  to-day." 

"  What  things  ?  " 

Antoine  considered.  "  Perhaps — about  the  sonata.  We 
did  not  understand — " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Victor  calmly.     "  Try  again." 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  other  things,"  said  Antoine,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Ha !  "  said  M.  Duchatel.  "  Well,  you  are  sure  to  re- 
member before  you  go." 

"Why?"  said  Antoine. 

"  Because  you  will  stay  here  a  considerable  time." 

Antoine  sat  up,  looking  round  his  host  at  the  table.  "  My 
uncle  said  twenty  minutes  at  the  most,"  he  observed. 

"Did  he?"  said  Victor,  with  interest.  "You  remember 
that  then.     Aren't  you  comfortable?" 

"  Yes."  The  boy  sank  back  again.  "  This  is  the  most 
comfortable  place  in  the  world.  What  are  you  writing — 
Monsieur  ?  " 

"  A  string  quartet — Monsieur."  Duchatel  reached  the 
papers  on  the  table.  "  I  shall  be  happy  to  dedicate  to  you, 
if  you  approve  the  upper  line." 

"  But  I  have  no  quartet."  Antoine  turned  his  attention 
to  the  papers.  He  made  no  further  remark  for  some  min- 
utes, and  Victor  remained  motionless,  using  the  eyeglass. 

"  You  are  like  your  grandfather,  Antoine,"  he  said.  "  I 
suppose  you  have  heard  that  pretty  often." 

"  Hein  ? "  said  Antoine,  who  was  reading.  "  Yes,  I 
have  heard  it.  Oh,  this  is  ugly  stuff — and  difficult !  I  had 
better  not  attempt  it."  He  giggled  as  he  spoke,  and  tossed 
the  score  from  him.  Then  he  swept  his  hand  across  his 
brow  again.  "  I  must  go,"  he  declared.  "  I  have  not  said 
any  of  the  things  they  meant." 

"  Fortunately,"  murmured  Victor.  "  Why  should  you 
go?    Is  your  grandfather  alone?  " 


THE   RATS  — AND   DUCHATEL        87 

**  No ;  my  uncle  is  amusing  him.  There  is  a  great  deal 
to  say  from  yesterday." 

"He  hands  on  your  opinions,  does  he?" 

"  I  have  no  opinion,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  says,  '  That  is 
your  opinion,  mon  petit ' — and  then  it  is  finished,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  Victor  agreed.    "  What  do  you  say?  " 

"  Oh,  I  say — it  has  been  for  four  years.  He  says,  the 
older,  in  your  case,  the  less  important — because  he  thinks  I 
am  young.     Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  follow  the  pleasantry,"  said  Victor.  "  Your  lessons 
must  be  worth  attending.    Do  you  talk  all  the  time?  " 

"  Not  here,"  said  Antoine,  "  because  there  is  grandpapa. 
He  does  not  understand  now,  when  I  am  not  quiet.  It  is 
so  easy  to  be  quiet,  hein  ?  " 

"  It  comes  with  practice,"  said  Duchatel.  "  I  have  learnt 
to  keep  quiet.     My  mother  is  an  old  woman." 

"  Not  so  old."    The  boy  looked  round,  attentive. 

"  Pretty  near.  I  am  her  youngest  son — and  I  am  older 
than  you,  you  know.    How  old  are  you,  by  the  way  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  fifteen  on  Friday,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Good  heavens — I'm  twice  your  age.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
asked.  Well  now,  as  to  myself,"  said  Victor,  "  I  have  a 
quiet  existence,  and  comfortable,  as  you  observed.  Mamma 
refuses  me  nothing  in  reason,  and  I  am  allowed  out  at  cer- 
tain hours  to  see  my  friends — though  it  annoys  her  to  have 
them  here.  She  grows  jealous  of  them,  easily.  In  the  eve- 
ning we  chatter  a  little  " — Duchatel  was  a  celebrated  racon- 
teur— "  and  she  reads  me  aloud  every  word  the  critics  have 
to  say.    Twice  over  sometimes,  for  her  memory  is  short." 

"Yes?"  said  Antoine,  still  attentive.  Victor  had  the 
Jiame  of  a  good  son,  which  in  France  covers  many  enorm- 
ities, and  even  eccentricities.  It  was  a  feather  in  the  cap 
of  old  Madame,  to  have  retained  him  so  long  at  her  side. 
Exactly  what  it  meant  to  the  man  of  thirty,  few  had  trou- 
bled to  inquire,  contenting  themselves  with  the  customary 
little  jokes  at  Victor's  expense. 

"  She  is  really  fond  of  music,  though  not  mine,"  said 


88  SUCCESSION 

Victor.  "  It  is  my  misfortune,  Antoine,  that  I  cannot 
play." 

"Misfortune!"  the  boy  ejaculated. 

"  Come,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  like  playing." 

"  Once  I  liked  it,"  he  said. 

"  Last  Thursday,"  suggested  Duchatel. 

"  Oh  yes,  perhaps."  His  dark  eyes  passed  the  questioner 
by,  a  world  of  impatience  in  them. 

"  Less  agreeable  than  we  thought,  perhaps,"  said  Victor. 

"  He  told  me  I  should  *  rater  '  yours,"  the  Loy  burst  out. 
"  That  I  deserved  to — I  had  not  worked  enough.  No,  don't 
laugh."  He  grasped  his  auditor.  "  He  does  not  know  what 
is  work  to  me,  ever.  He  does  not  know  how  music  comes 
to  you,  I  think.  When  I  am  not  playing — making  a  noise 
like  that  parrot — when  the  score  is  not  there  with  a  pencil 
to  draw  little  lines  upon  it — I  do  not  work." 

He  broke  off  as  sharply  as  he  had  started.  Duchatel  con- 
sidered him  coolly  for  a  period. 

"  You  write  yourself,"  he  suggested  at  leisure. 

"  Yes,  sometimes.  I  have  not  a  place  like  this,  where  he 
may  not  come.  And  for  a  great  deal  of  the  time,  I  must 
make  that  parrot  noise." 

"  Don't — don't.  "  Victor  shrank.  "  I  can  hear  that  sacre 
bird's  shriek  through  all  the  doors.  But  I  would  shut  it 
out,  wring  its  neck,  mon  petit — if  you  came  to  work  with 
me  here." 

"  She  would  not  like  it,  hein?  "  said  Antoine. 

"  She  need  not  know." 

"  And  I  could  not  come  often."  He  sat  up  restlessly. 
"  Even  now,  if  I  was  good,  I  am  at  home."  He  swept  his 
hair  back  with  that  characteristic  movement.  "  There  is  the 
post,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  send  you  some- 
thing." 

"  Don't  you  show  them  generally  ?  " 

"  Some,  to  grandpapa ;  but  not  all.  There  are  some  he 
wouldn't  like." 

"  Those  you  will  send  to  me." 


JHE   RATS  — AND   DUCHATEL        89 

"  Yes,  Monsieur." 

"  Encore  Monsieur,"  said  Victor. 

"  You  are  it.  I  do  not  know  how  to  write.  You  will 
see  how  bad  it  is." 

Duchatel  assented  agreeably.    "And  tell  you,  hey?" 

"  Tell,  do  not  write,"  entreated  Antoine. 

"  As  you  will — telling's  cheaper.    I  will  come  round." 

"  Come,  yes.    Why  do  you  laugh  ?  " 

"  I  was  merely  wondering  how  I  should  describe  you  to 
mamma  this  evening.     It  may  be  wiser  not  to  attempt  it." 

Antoine  grew  thoughtful.  "  She  knows  I  am  here,  your 
maman,"  he  remarked,  warming  one  long  hand  at  the  leaping 
little  log  fire  to  which  he  bent. 

"  Does  she  ?    And  she  will  know  when  you  depart." 

"Shall  I  not  see  her?" 

"  Not  unless  you  wish." 

"  I  do  wish."  said  the  boy,  without  hesitation. 

"  You  are  simply  one  of  the  cleverest  people  I  ever  met," 
Duchatel  declared  unexpectedly.  "  Stay  where  you  are," 
he  added,  just  touching  the  boy's  head  as  he  arose.  "  I  may 
be  some  time  gone;  but  I  will  work  it  for  you  if  it  can  be 
mortally  managed." 

The  interview  with  Madame  was  managed — with  diffi- 
culty; for  she  was,  as  her  son  said,  very  jealous;  and  her 
natural  obstinacy  of  disposition,  which  the  jealousy  in- 
creased, needed  all  Victor's  wiles  to  get  round.  His  most 
cunning  effort,  which  he  never  confessed  to  Antoine,  was  to 
say  the  boy  looked  ill.  Madame  awoke  at  once,  with  the  air 
of  an  old  campaigner  in  the  fields  of  pharmacy;  and  her 
son,  slightly  smiling,  was  sent  to  fetch  the  "  little  Lemaure." 

Antoine,  for  his  part,  was  literally  trembling  when  he  en- 
tered the  salon,  where  she  sat  very  stiffly,  within  arm's-length 
of  her  parrot's  cage.  Before  her  the  patience  cards  lay 
out  on  a  polished  table,  for  the  intruder  was  to  understand 
clearly  he  was  interrupting.  The  intruder  gave  her  his 
hand,  and  bore  her  piercing  stare  without  visible  shrink- 


90 


SUCCESSION 


ing,  though  his  jaw  was  set,  and  Victor  saw  his  nervousness 
very  well. 

"  Your  grandfather  is  better,  I  trust,"  she  said.  "  Victor 
informed  me  on  Thursday  he  was  ailing." 

"  He  is  better,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  sent  his  homage  to 
you — if  I  should  see  you."  He  only  hesitated  very  slightly ; 
as  a  fact  he  was  speaking  the  strict  truth. 

"  Ah,  well,  you  have  seen  me,  and  I  accept  it,  and  thank 
you."  The  boy  made  a  slight  movement,  complete  as  an- 
swer. "  You  are  also,  I  believe,  to  be  congratulated,"  said 
the  awful  old  lady.  "  I  understand  from  my  son,  and  sev- 
eral of  the  morning  papers,  that  you  enjoyed  success  on 
Thursday." 

"  I  enjoyed  it,"  said  Antoine,  with  a  brilliant  smile.  Vic- 
tor trembled  for  him,  but  old  Madame's  composed  front 
did  not  change. 

"  I  suppose  the  young,"  she  said,  "  can  enjoy  success  with 
no  sense  of  the  responsibility  it  entails.  They  allow  you  to 
see  the  papers,  do  they  ?  You  are  aware  they  are  not  always 
to  be  believed?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  them,"  hesitated  Antoine,  "  when  they 
are  stupid."  He  was  in  dread  of  catching  Victor's  eye,  and 
moved  a  little. 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  to  sit  down,"  said  IMadame  in- 
stantly, on  the  movement,  "  because  I  understood  you  were 
in  a  hurry  to  be  gone.    Are  you  tired  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine.  Accustomed  to  stand  before  the 
crowd,  he  held  himself  easily,  and  she  noticed  that  his  idle 
hands  were  not  awkward.  Only  the  one  behind  him,  as  she 
could  not  see,  was  snapping  two  fingers  faintly. 

"  The  papers,"  said  Madame,  with  a  jerking  head,  "  have 
been  at  times  extremely  insolent,  on  the  subject  of  my  son. 
At  times,  no  doubt,  their  remarks  were  just." 

"  Almost  never,"  Antoine  assured  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Madame,  and  left  a  crushing 
pause.    "  I  was  speaking  of  my  own  son." 

"  Yes ;  so  wa-s  I.    I  have  read  what  they  say." 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUG  H  ATE  L        91 

"And  you  have  an  opinion?  All  your  mother's  impu- 
dence," thought  Madame. 

"  You  see,"  Antoine  explained,  "  I  have  read  what  he 
writes,  Monsieur  Duchatel.  The  people  who  say  those 
things  have  not." 

"  You  seem  very  certain." 

"  I  know  some  of  them." 

"You  know  the  critics?  To  be  sure  you  might."  She 
stared  at  him  steadily.  "  He  has  your  support  then,"  she 
said. 

"  I  have,  what  is  better,  his  advertisement,"  her  son 
suavely  interposed.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  what  he  did  for 
me,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  heard  of  it,  Victor,  and  read."  His  mother  froze  him. 
"  Do  not  imagine  that  I  wish  to  see  you  popular."  Victor 
was  silent,  well  knowing  that  it  was  the  one  thing  on  earth 
she  did  wish  to  see  him.  "  At  present,  I  understand.  Mon- 
sieur Edgell  draws  what  little  there  is  of  your  popularity 
into  his." 

"  Surely  you  are  hard  on  both  of  us,"  said  Victor,  doing 
his  best  not  to  laugh. 

"  You  seem  to  be  amused,"  said  Madame,  noticing  his 
transformed  appearance  with  surprise. 

"  I  fear  Monsieur  Edgell's  audacity  affects  me,"  said 
Victor.    "  He  has  no  reverence." 

"  He  is  a  little  too  ready  with  his  tongue,"  pronounced 
Madame.    "  But  even  that  is  better  than  protracted  silence." 

"  That  is  my  habit." 

"  You  know  it  is.  I  frequently  have  to  wait  for  your 
answers." 

"  Can  the  parrot  talk  ?  "  said  Antoine.  Madam  Duchatel 
turned  on  him. 

"  Yes ;  more  readily  than  Victor.  I  suppose  that  is  the 
bearing  of  your  question.     Are  you  fond  of  birds?" 

"  Not  when  they  scream,"  said  Antoine.  "  But  perhaps 
he  will  not,  when  you  are  there." 

"  Superb !  "  thought  Victor  in  a  gasp.     "  He  is  really 


92  SUCCESSION 

inspired."  The  parrot  was  his  mother's  weakest  spot. 
Though  still  stately,  she  unbent  at  once.  Not  even  her  hon- 
eyed wiles,  though,  could  induce  the  grey  parrot  to  say  a 
word.  He  regarded  the  stranger  with  cold  suspicion,  and 
kept  his  head  lowered  in  readiness  to  attack  him  if  he  ad- 
vanced too  close. 

"  Scratch  his  head,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  and  he  will 
never  scream  at  you  again." 

As  Antoine  advanced  to  the  cage  the  master  of  the  house 
snatched  back  his  hand  with  a  "  Gare,  mon  cher !  "  that  was 
quite  unstudied.  The  boy  drew  the  hand  back,  with  a 
slightly  heightened  colour:  he  put  two  fingers  between  the 
bars  upon  the  parrot's  head,  and  scratched  in  accurate  imi- 
tation of  his  hostess.  The  grey  parrot  unbent  as  she  had 
done,  and  became  instantly  sentimental,  trampling  his  perch, 
and  bowing. 

"  Tchk,"  said  the  parrot.    "  Au  revoir,  mon  vieux." 

"  Perfect !  "  The  old  lady  absolutely  smiled.  "  He  even 
speaks  to  you." 

"  He  tells  me  to  go,"  said  Antoine,  and  held  out  his  hand 
to  her. 

"  He  told  you,  if  I  did  not  mistake  him,  to  come  again." 

Antoine  looked  at  her.  Her  chilly  touch  filled  him  with 
shrinking,  and  her  steely  eyes  seemed  to  have  no  power  to 
soften  even  had  their  owner  wished  it.  He  thought  of 
Victor  all  alone  with  her  and  his  books,  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end — and  he  seemed  to  see  whence  came  Duchatel's 
fine  polish,  and  his  impeccable  manner.  He  acted  a  part 
before  the  world,  and  he  performed  it  well  and  gracefully. 
Antoine  marvelled  at  Victor  and  admired  him  profoundly, 
and  his  dark  eyes,  moving  to  him,  spoke  all  the  feeling. 

"  Thank  you,  I  will  try  to  come,"  he  said.  "  I  mean,  I 
will  ask  my  uncle." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  IMadame,  pleased  at  the  mark  of  docil- 
ity. "  If  Lucien  Lemaure  will  bring  you,  so  much  the 
better." 

Duchatel  bit  his  lip,  and  Antoine  gave  him  one  glance. 


THE    RATS  — AND    DUCIIATEL        93 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  for  then  my  grandfather  would  be  left 
alone.  Of  course,  we  must  do  that  already  a  good  deal. 
For  visiting,  I  expect  my  uncle  would  not.''  He  added  no 
phrase  of  courtesy,  the  man  of  the  world  observed ;  but  he 
was  perfectly,  even  attentively  polite  to  the  old  lady's  criti- 
cal eye  and  ear. 

"  Just  so,"  she  said.  "  You  are  well  organised,  it  seems. 
Well,  come  yourself  some  afternoon.  INIy  son  is  almost  in- 
variably at  home  from  one  to  four."  She  extended  her 
bony  fingers  to  him.    "  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  also." 

Antoine  bent  to  her  hand  as  he  had  been  taught ;  and 
with  an  equally  formal  word  of  farewell  to  Victor,  departed. 

Madame  Duchatel,  after  his  departure,  observed  that 
"  she  would  like  to  have  that  boy  here  for  a  week,  and  dose 
him." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  TYRANT 

Dr  Savigny  returned  to  the  capital  in  his  own  good  time; 
and  at  his  own  good  leisure — which  allowed  the  lapse  of 
some  three  weeks — came  to  see  his  friends  in  the  Avenue. 
He  announced  at  once  on  arrival  that  he  did  not  intend  to 
stay;  but  finding  M.  Lemaure  alone  in  the  house,  was 
tempted  to  linger  longer  than  he  had  originally  intended. 
He  discoursed  on  the  investigations  he  had  been  making  dur- 
ing his  holiday,  as  to  the  effect  of  alcoholism  in  various  parts 
of  France :  questions  which  interested  him  a  great  deal,  and 
his  old  friend  not  a  little.  He  described  also  how  things 
had  got  out  of  hand  during  his  absence  from  town,  not  only 
in  the  dispensary  and  household  under  his  charge,  but  in  the 
social,  political  and  academic  world.  Since  his  return  he 
had  been,  it  appeared,  so  busy  putting  things  straight  in  all 
these  departments,  that  he  had  little  time  for  society. 

"  A  comfort  to  see  you  in  peace  like  this,"  he  observed 
in  appendix  to  his  soliloquy,  stretching  his  legs.  "  No  cubs 
interfering." 

"  My  descendants  will  be  sorry  to  miss  you,"  said  M. 
Lemaure. 

"  Won't  they  ?  "  agreed  Savigny.  "  I  can  picture  their 
expressions  when  they  hear  I  have  come  and  gone.  Last 
time  I  came,  I  cut  Lucien  off  his  coffee — you  remember 
the  uproar?  " 

"  Lucien  protested,"  said  his  father  equably.  "  He  said 
you  were  not  his  doctor,  which  is  true." 

"  Grossly   conventional,"    said    Savigny.      "  However,    I 

94  ' 


THE    TYRANT  95 

never  supposed  he  would  stop  drinking  it.  I  only  pointed 
out  he  was  ruining  his  nerves  and  those  of  others  by  sheer 
intemperance.  You've  the  gosse  with  you  again,  Bronne 
tells  me." 

"  The  gosse  is  with  me,  yes.  That  is,  he  sleeps  in  my 
house." 

"  Good,  you're  getting  jealous  of  Lucien  now.  He's  busy, 
I  suppose." 

"Antoine?    Yes,  he  has  plenty  to  do." 

"  That's  all  right.    Things  are  going  on  well,  I  hear." 

"  Not  at  all  well,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  Hey  ?  I  thought  the  last  concerts  had  been  a  score  for 
him;  and  I  supposed,  in  consequence,  for  you." 

"  Ah,  yes.    I  thought  you  referred  to  his  health." 

"  His  health  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  When  did  I  ever  waste 
time  with  you  over  that?  I've  heard  all  I  want  from  Louis 
Bronne.  More  than  I  want,  for  Louis  is  inclined  to  niggle 
over  trifles — womanish,  his  one  fault.  Where  are  they  to- 
day?" 

"  Let  me  see.  Lucien  has  gone  to  see  his  wife's  relations. 
Antoine  is  at  a  reception." 

"  I  ought  to  be  at  a  reception,"  said  Savigny  reflectively. 
"Mrs  Adler's." 

"  You  don't  say  so.     You  will  find  Bebe  there." 

"  If  I  go,  you  mean,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  hate  receptions, 
especially  people  of  that  sort." 

"  You  refer  to  the  wealthy  ?  "    Do  you  know  Mrs  Adler  ?  " 

"  Sufficiently,"  said  Savigny.  "  She  evidently  thinks  she 
knows  me,  on  the  strength  of  a  consultation.  She  brought 
her  daughter  to  me,  by  your  recommendation — or  Lucien's, 
was  it?  You  might  as  well  have  left  it  alone  anyhow.  The 
case  was  a  rotten  one." 

"  Neurasthenia,  poor  girl,  her  mother  said." 

"  Laziness,"  said  Savigny.  "  Mrs  Adler's  poor  girl  hadn't 
enough  to  do.  I  asked  her  what  she  wanted,  and  she  said 
she  thought  it  might  do  her  good  to  go  to  Cannes.  So  I 
gave  her  the  address  of  a  doctor  who  could  be  trusted  to 


96  SUCCESSION 

send  her  there.  For  myself,  I  really  could  not  take  the 
responsibility."  After  this  discursion,  which  aroused  him, 
he  settled  again  with  divers  grunts.  "  What's  Antoine 
up  to?"  he  said. 

"  Business  of  a  sort.  I  had  no  wish  for  him  to  go,  but  he 
was  literally  raided." 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

"Actually,  by  Victor  Duchatel.  Indirectly,  by  Mrs 
Adler.  That  lady,  who  is  the  barest  acquaintance  of  either 
of  us,  was  in  difficulties.  She  had  made  up  a  trio  for  her 
party,  it  appeared,  and  it  went  wrong,  as  things  will  do 
when  artificially  constructed.  The  leader  quarrelled  with 
another  member,  and  threatened  to  fail  her  at  the  last  min- 
ute. She  went  to  Victor,  to  get  him  to  patch  things  up ;  and 
he  came  to  Lucien  in  despair  to-day,  and  borrowed  Antoine 
in  case  of  need.    Do  you  know  Duchatel  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Savigny.    "  A  clever  fellow." 

"  He  is  the  general  peacemaker  in  his  sets.  But  not  even 
he  could  manage  this  young  Charretteur." 

"  Hallo  !  "  The  doctor  was  interested.  "  Is  that  Jacques 
Charretteur,  the  violinist  ?  " 

"  The  same,  yes.  He  has  become  the  fashion  in  the  for- 
eign quarter,  they  tell  me,  and  is  getting  spoiled  by  a  set 
of  rich  women.  He  chose  to  consider  he  had  been  insulted 
— ^by  whom,  I  forget — and  Victor,  though  he  is  an  acquaint- 
ance, could  do  nothing  with  him." 

"  He  won't  turn  up,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  trust  not  now,  for  the  sake  of  peace.  Besides, 
if  he  does,  Bebe  will  be  superfluous;  and  that  Lucien  con- 
siders beneath  his  dignity." 

"  It's  good  for  children  to  be  superfluous,"  said  Savigny ; 
and  then  rose  rather  suddenly.  "  Au  revoir,  Charles.  I 
am  going  to  do  my  duty,  chez  Madame  Adler." 

"  Aha !    You  would  seize  the  chance  of  hearing  my  grand- 


son 


"  No.    I  would  miss  no  chance  of  seeing  Charretteur.    I 


THK   TYRANT  97 

have  heard  he  is  a  flourishing  case  in  my  line ;  and  I  want 
to  diagnose  and  class  him." 

M.  Lemaure  was  disturbed.  "A  drunkard,  Raymond? 
He's  not  twenty." 

"  So  much  the  more  interesting,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Un- 
der twenty,  he  may  be  teachable,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  as 
he  turned  his  back. 

"  It  takes  two  to  teach,"  his  friend  reminded  him.  "  What 
if  Monsieur  Jacques  will  not  come  to  be  classed?  To  judge 
by  my  son's  account  and  Victor's,  he  is  not  a  facile  person." 

"  Tant  mieux,"  said  Savigny,  unmoved.  "  I  like  it  bet- 
ter when  they  kick.  The  only  drawback  to  you  and  Antoine, 
as  I  have  often  told  you,  is  over-facility.  I  can  do  what  I 
like  with  you  both,  at  any  time.    It  is  dull." 

"  We  are  dull,"  M.  Lemaure  assented  absently.  He 
seemed  still  rather  disturbed.  "  I  hope  Victor  will  keep  the 
boy  clear  of  him,"  he  reflected  aloud.  "  I  mean,  if  Charret- 
teur  should  arrive  by  a  freak,  and  find  his  place  filled."  He 
looked  at  Savigny 's  back,  but  appeal  in  that  quarter  was 
useless. 

"  I  recommend  Victor  as  trustworthy,"  said  the  tyrant. 
"  For  myself,  if  the  young  fellow  is  not  there,  I  shall  not 
further  waste  my  time."  He  was  engaged  in  turning  over 
the  illustrated  programmes  on  the  mantelpiece  as  he  spoke, 
and  reading  extracts  from  notices  with  his  lower  lip  criti- 
cally thrust  out.  "  Lot  of  clap-trap,"  he  ejaculated  unex- 
pectedly. ''  He's  a  good  investment,  is  he  ?  "  He  shook  the 
paper  he  held. 

"Bebe?  You  can  put  it  that  way  if  you  prefer.  Friends 
can  take  shares  in  the  business,  Raymond,  with  perfect 
propriety." 

"  Hey?"  said  the  doctor.  "  I've  no  wish  to  take  shares 
in  a  public  performer.  His  music  never  did  interest  me  in 
the  least,  and  you  have  wasted  his  other  qualities.  That  is 
a  very  bad  portrait,  if  you  want  my  opinion — better  to  have 
none."  He  tossed  the  programme  down  and  turned.  "  If 
I  find  him  down  there,"  he  said  at  the  door  in  his  most 


98  SUCCESSION 

ranting  manner,  "  and  he  is  getting  petted  and  spoilt,  I 
shall  take  it  on  myself  to  send  him  home.  It's  that  that 
has  made  him  out  of  sorts,  most  probably." 

Savigny  did  not  remain  long  at  the  wealthy  Mrs  Adler's 
house,  but  he  was  not  bored.  Coming  with  a  single  object, 
and  strictly  guarding  a  point  of  view,  he  found  wherewithal 
to  be  interested  at  a  fashionable  reception.  He  administered 
this  view  of  society  to  a  colleague  he  picked  up  near  the 
entrance,  and  the  friend  grew  annoyed  with  him. 

"  They  are  a  lot  of  well-dressed  women,"  he  argued,  "  and 
a  few  tame  men." 

"  I  have  seen  four  marked  neurasthenes  and  a  dipso," 
said  Savigny.    "  That  tall  woman  over  there  takes  drugs." 

"  And  the  man  behind  her?  " 

"  Nothing  interesting,"  said  the  doctor,  diverting  his  eyes, 
"  Tuberculous.  Have  some  tea,  Paul."  He  stopped  to 
help  himself  from  a  tray  in  a  angle  of  the  long  room  they 
were  traversing.  "  Those  iced  drinks  mark  the  American 
house.  They  are  a  rapid  poison.  Tea  is  a  slow  poison,  so 
I  prefer  it.    Hullo,  there's  a  little  boy.    What's  he  doing?  " 

Paul  explained  it  was  the  son  of  the  house:  a  stunted  little 
fool,  he  added,  not  worth  attention.  Savigny,  drinking  tea, 
returned  that  he  was  eminently  worth  it, 

"Not  another  alcoholic?"  said  Dr  Paul,  "Well,  see 
here,  I'll  venture  the  pale  fop  by  him  is  as  bad." 

"  You  venture  beyond  your  depth,"  said  Savigny.  "  The 
pale  fop  is  a  charming  fellow,  talented  to  his  finger-tips. 
Don't  you  know  Duchatel  ?  " 

The  young  composer,  strolling  languidly  along  through 
the  room,  had  been  accosted  almost  in  the  doorway  by 
another  man  entering,  and  the  doctor's  hawk  eye  had  leapt 
instantly  beyond  the  person  he  was  describing  to  the  new- 
comer, who  presented  a  striking  contrast  with  Duchatel  in 
every  particular.  He  was  quite  young,  with  some  of  the 
movements  of  the  overgrown  boy  about  him  still.  He  was 
tall  and  strongly  made,  though  he  held  himself  badly  and 


THE    TYRANT 


99 


dragged  his  feet,  and  his  equipment  showed  a  carelessness 
as  deliberate  in  its  way  as  Victor's  elegant  precision.  Nor 
could  anyone  have  called  him  handsome ;  his  features  were 
too  marked,  his  colour  rather  sickly,  the  expression  of  mouth 
and  eyes  both  ill-tempered  and  furtive ;  yet  the  whole  had 
a  harmony  approaching  to  attraction,  which  could  be  traced 
to  no  detail  in  particular,  and  which  w-as  evidently  under- 
valued or  rather  ignored  by  its  possessor.  From  the  instant 
Savigny's  searchlight  was  turned  on  him,  he  was  sure  he  had 
found  his  game. 

"  Would  you  care  for  an  introduction  ?  "  he  said  suddenly 
to  his  colleague.    "  Victor  is  worth  knowing." 

"  He  is  engaged,"  the  other  man  was  protesting,  when 
he  ceased.  The  doctor,  without  moving  from  the  corner 
where  he  leant  against  the  wall,  lowered  his  head  and  fixed 
a  steady  gaze  on  Duchatel.  After  a  few  seconds  Paul, 
watching  the  manoeuvre  with  amusement,  saw  the  young 
man  thus  honoured  frown  and  glance  about  him,  as  though 
aware  of  another  claim  while  he  conversed.  A  minute  later, 
perceiving  Savigny's  gaunt  form  by  the  wall,  he  Uirned  at 
once  in  that  direction,  with  a  word  to  his  compan'ion.  The 
companion  also  looked  round,  took  in  the  striking  doctor, 
looked  away,  and  looked  again.  Then  he  edged  by  degrees 
to  where  the  host,  young  Adler,  was  standing  near  the  tray 
of  refreshments,  as  though  from  that  vantage-ground  to 
spy  on  the  proceedings  of  the  other  group. 

"  Who's  that  fellow,  Victor  ? "  said  Savigny,  having 
barely  left  Duchatel  time  for  introductory  courtesies  with 
Paul.     Victor  followed  his  eyes. 

"Young  Charrctteur,"  he  said,  "the  vertuose.  He  is 
entertainer-in-chief  to-day." 

"  He  doesn't  look  entertaining,"  remarked  Savigny. 

"  His  rudeness  is  called  originality,"  Victor  explained. 
"  Jacques  is  a  primitive.  I  have  spent  a  laborious  day  try- 
ing to  serve  him,  and  he  has  just  been  telling  me  what  he 
thinks  of  it.  I  shall  certainly  never  try  again.  Do  you  feel 
a  sympathy,  sir  ?  " 


100  SUCCESSION 

Savigny  gave  him  a  passing  gleam.  "  What  is  primitive 
rudeness  ?  "  he  said.  "  You're  getting  bald,  Victor — and 
cynical.  That  boy  there  is  rude  because  he  is  out  of  health. 
I  can  see  that,  at  a  distance  of  half-a-room." 

"  He  takes  poison,"  said  Victor  lower,  having  glanced 
round  him. 

"  Good,"  said  the  tyrant.    "  Can  you  tell  me  which  ?  " 

"  I  imagine,  absinthe." 

"  Your  imagination,  Victor.    What  is  it  worth  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Duchatel,  smiling.  "  I  learn  that,  from 
the  critics,  every  day.  I  have  to  go,  sir,"  he  added,  "  I 
have  a  prodigy  in  charge,  the  young  Edgell.  You  know  him, 
do  you  not  ?  " 

Savigny  admitted  it.  "  Is  he  also  an  entertaining  ele- 
ment ? "  he  asked. 

"  As  it  happens,  no."  Victor  touched  his  arm,  for  Char- 
retteur  and  Adler  were  close.  "  We  have  better,  hein, 
Jacques  ?    Antoine,  for  the  time,  is  doing  nothing." 

"  That's  the  one  thing,"  said  Savigny,  "  I  never  allow  my 
patients  to  do." 

"  Patient  ?  "  said  Victor,  really  surprised ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  Savigny  caught  Jacques'  cat-like  glance. 

"  Name  ?  "  he  said  audibly  to  young  Adler  aside.  The 
doctor  himself  cut  across  the  host's  communication. 

"  I  am  Raymond  Savigny,"  he  said.  "  That  may  not  help 
you,  sir." 

Jacques  intended  to  ignore  him  evidently ;  the  line  of  his 
half-turned  shoulders  was  most  sulky ;  but  after  an  instant, 
he  had  to  break  the  silence.  "  I  have  been  m-mis-informed," 
he  said,  in  a  harsh  voice,  stammering  slightly.  "  I  was  told 
you  dealt  in  criminal  cases." 

"  Not  entirely,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  experiment  in  various 
lines.  That  boy  we  mentioned,  for  instance,  is  not  a  crim- 
inal at  present.  He  is  not  even  a  patient,  properly  speaking. 
He's  a  cure,  and  an  ungrateful  one." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  ask  to  be  cured,"  murmured  Jacques. 

"  Who  is  the  boy  ?  "  asked  Dr  Paul. 


THE   TYRANT.  ipi. 

"  The  grandson  of  Lemaure,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  have  a 
respect  for  the  Lemaures ;  so  at  a  period  of  Antoine's  youth 
when  nobody  was  making  an  effort  to  educate  him,  I  took 
it  upon  myself — that  is  all." 

"  Pie  is  not  a  musician,  then?" 

"  Quite  by  the  way,"  ranted  Savigny,  cutting  across  Vic- 
tor this  time.  "  There  are  other  forms  of  education  infi- 
nitely more  urgent  than  that.  Some  include  control ;  control 
of  the  desires  for  example — the  study  of  the  will " 

"  At  least,"  said  Jacques  to  Adler  audibly,  "  he  m-makes 
his  own  advertisement ;  and  he  looks  the  part." 

Savigny  w^as  furious — but  of  course  superior  to  the  pas- 
sion. He  did  not  expect  his  chosen  subjects  to  kick  exactly 
in  this  way.  His  eyes  burnt  like  coals  upon  the  insolent 
youth,  so  clearly  in  need  of  his  skilled  assistance,  whose 
slightly  bent  shoulders  were  turned  to  him.  Yet  while  he 
raged,  he  took  a  mental  note  upon  his  mode  of  speech. 

Despite  his  harsh  and  hasty  utterance,  Jacques'  accent 
was  a  good  one,  nothing  in  its  quality  either  mongrel  or  slip- 
shod, as  might  be  expected  of  his  nondescript  exterior.  It 
answered  for  all  sorts  of  things  to  Savigny's  practised  ear : 
strength  of  character,  sense  of  beauty — pride  of  race  above 
all,  whencesoever  he  might  be  sprung.  Race  meant  much  to 
Savigny,  whose  own  was  of  the  highest,  and  it  gratified  him 
to  mark  his  new  study  as  good  French,  with  no  hebraic  or 
other  element  to  confuse  the  issues,  in  his  scientific  pursuit 
of  the  disease. 

"  I  paused,"  he  said  to  Dr  Paul,  with  emphasis,  "  because 
it  struck  me  the  study  of  music  would  not  necessarily  in- 
clude such  control  as  I  mentioned." 

"  C'est  vrai  ?  "  said  Jacques,  sneering  like  a  schoolboy. 
"  Here,  Victor,  we  are  to  hear  about  the  study  of  music. 
Wish  I  could  wait." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Savigny,  "  I  know  nothing  about  it, 
beyond  what  a  listener  can  learn." 

"A  listener  to  m-music  or  to  discourse  upon  it?"  said 
Jacques.    "  Pity  you  came  late  for  our  little  performance — 


-to;;  ;S.UC  CESS  ION 

listeners  are  so  scarce."  He  looked  at  his  watch  with  elab- 
orate rudeness.  It  gave  the  doctor  a  chance  to  study  his 
long  lithe  hands.  All  his  movements  were  cat-like,  and 
suggestive  of  slow  tenacity,  possibly  cruelty.  His  face  was 
so  conspicuously  clever  that  Savigny  could  not  be  sure  he 
had  not  conquered  the  brute  that  lingered  in  his  movements. 

"  I've  got  to  go  on  to  Bertrand's,"  Jacques  told  Victor. 
"  The  gosse  is  going  there  to  rehearse,  so  he  said.  I'll 
take  him  with  me  if  you  like." 

"  Stop  that,"  said  Savigny  under  his  breath ;  and  Ducha- 
tel,  with  easy  tact,  disposed  of  the  offer. 

"  I  have  exact  directions  from  Lemaure,"  he  said,  "  which 
is  as  much  as  to  say,  I  obey  them.  You've  finished  here, 
then,  have  you,  Jacques  ?  " 

"  Adler  may  know,"  said  Charretteur.  "  I've  forgotten 
the  programme." 

He  moved  av/ay,  and  the  young  Adler  followed,  looking 
like  a  little  monkey  beside  an  animal  of  the  woods.  The 
contrast  brought  out  Jacques'  inner  distinction  strangely. 

"  Have  a  drink  ?  "  Adler  suggested,  taking  his  arm. 

"  Can't  stop,"  said  Jacques,  with  a  ring  of  defiance. 
"  Tell  your  mamma  one's  had  a  charming  afternoon  and  so 
forth,  won't  you?  Sorry  to  disappoint  the  ladies;  but  if 
they  want  more  they  can  come  to  my  c-concert  on  the  four- 
teenth." And  with  a  careless  salute  of  two  long  fingers  to 
Victor,  he  slouched  away. 

"  Excited,"  said  Savigny  sardonically. 

"  You  frightened  him,"  Victor  laughed. 

"  Not  quite  sufficiently,"  said  the  tyrant.  "  What's  his  age 
— twenty  ?  " 

"  Thereabouts,"  said  Victor.  "  Perhaps  less,  it's  hard  to 
say." 

"  He  has  had  a  struggle  of  it,  hey  ?  " 

Victor  shrugged.  "  Out  of  the  mud,  they  say ;  he  has 
made  himself  entirely.  This  is  his  first  taste  of  success, 
and  heaven  knows  it  may  not  last,  if  he  treats  it  so  reck- 
lessly.   His  pride  is  in  his  way,  that  is  the  fact." 


THE   TYRANT  103 

"  Do  you  admire  him  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Victor,  after  a  pause.  "  I  shall  be  sorry 
when  he  kills  himself." 

"  That's  to  be  the  end  of  him,  then,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  see  no  other  end — unless "     Duchatel's  gesture 

was  to  Savigny. 

"  I  am  not  sure  I  would  undertake  it,"  said  Savigny.  "  He 
has  a  tremendous  will  of  his  own  in  reserve,  hey  ?  " 

Victor  nodded.  "  And  he  would  never  set  it  against 
dying.  Life's  a  poor  story  with  a  bad  plot,  he  told  me 
lately." 

"  So  he  wants  to  tear  it  across.  Well,"  said  Savigny, 
"  so  long  as  he  doesn't  tear  other  people's." 

"  He's  no  belongings,"  said  Victor.  "  His  mother  died  at 
his  birth,  and  he's  a  natural  son.  He  informs  the  world  of 
it  freely." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  the  tyrant  reflected. 

While  Victor  talked  with  his  careful  charm  to  Paul, 
Savigny  spun  his  webs  at  leisure,  with  a  perfect  air  of  a 
spare-limbed  master-spider  in  his  corner  by  the  wall.  Sa- 
vigny desired  Jacques  greatly,  the  more  for  his  defiance. 
Indeed  the  defiance  itself  proved  much,  for  he  had  been 
evidently  sensitive  to  the  will-force  put  upon  him ;  and  con- 
sidering his  state,  must  have  used  genuine  courage  to  fight 
it.  The  tyrant  did  not  personally  care  for  patients  who 
were  blocks  or  fools,  though  society  flung  them  daily  at  his 
feet.  He  tired  of  such  very  soon,  or  handed  them  to  the 
more  patient  Bronne.  He  perceived  in  Jacques  quick  senses 
and  a  good  brain,  and  a  situation  where  both  might  precip- 
itate him  at  a  moment's  notice  into  vice.  That  they  had  not 
yet  done  so  he  conjectured,  but  could  not  be  sure.  It  was 
eminently  a  case  where  if  something  could  be  done,  it  should 
be  done  at  once.  He  thought  once  of  his  little  fly  Antoine, 
and  wondered  if  he  could  be  used  to  attract  the  larger  game  ; 
but  it  was  the  idea  of  an  instant  only.  He  put  it  aside  with 
promptitude,  for  the  risk  was  evidently  too  great  to  the 
younger  boy. 


104  SUCCESSION 

"What  does  Antoine  think  of  him?"  he  said  quite  sud- 
denly. 

Victor  looked  round.  "  Of  Charretteur,  you  mean?  He 
was  surprised  a  trifle,  but  he  did  not  try  to  avoid  him, 
though  Jacques  was  pretty  savage.  He  seemed  interested 
in  the  animal,  on  the  whole ;  and,"  Victor  added,  "  he  lent 
him  the  violin." 

"  Does  that  mean  anything  particular  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  say,  to  both  sides.  It  proves, 
first,  Antoine  was  impressed  by  the  performance,  for  he 
would  only  lend  it  to  hands  he  trusts.  Two  strings  of 
Jacques'  went  in  the  first  trio,  that  was  how  it  occurred. 
The  baby  passed  the  instrument  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Jacques'  grace  in  accepting  it  was  not  conspicuous.  His 
own  violin  is  a  sore  point,  as  we  others  know,  for  it  is  not 
famous,  and  he  is  incapable  of  saving.  After  that  the  boy 
mended  his  strings  for  him — uninvited — and  they  ex- 
changed again  at  the  end.  I  do  not  imagine  he  was 
thanked,  in  either  case." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  snapped  Savigny.     "  Was  it  not  correct  ?  " 

"  Oh,  impeccable,"  said  Victor,  "  and  amusing  too.  Ces 
dames  were  much  attracted.  The  Adlers  head  Jacques' 
clique,  and  he  is  accustomed  to  be  sultan  here." 

"  He's  jealous,  you  mean."     Savigny 's  brows  were  bent. 

"  Impatient  of  interference,  might  be  truer,"  said  Victor. 
"He  is  touchy  to  a  degree,  and  bears  neither  help  nor 
hindrance  pleasantly.  He  presumes  to  make  his  way  by  his 
own  help  alone." 

"  Then  I  prophesy  he  will  fall,"  said  Savigny :  and  he 
seemed,  still  in  the  character  of  the  master-spider,  not  dis- 
pleased at  the  prospect. 

When  Savigny  arrived  in  the  room  where  the  buffet  was 
spread,  in  quest  of  his  hostess,  to  whom  it  seemed  only 
decent  to  speak  once,  he  found  Mrs  Adler  on  a  sofa  by  the 
window,  and  facing  her  Antoine  himself,  with  his  hands 
behind,  as  though  undergoing  a  somewhat  ungrateful  in- 


THE   TYRANT  105 

terview..  The  boy's  eyes  were  on  her  face,  or  he  might  have 
seen  them  enter,  and  Duchatel,  when  he  would  have  inter- 
rupted, was  stopped  by  the  tyrant's  hand  on  his  arm.  The 
boy  stood  in  a  good  light,  and  Victor  saw  Savigny's  eyes 
fix  upon  him,  and  rake  him  up  and  down.  The  doctor  al- 
ways liked  leisure  to  take  his  observations  before  he  inter- 
vened. 

*'  I  thought  you  came  prepared  to  supplement,"  Mrs 
Adler  spoke  in  English  to  him,  low  and  sharply.  "  Duchatel 
told  me  that." 

"  I  came,"  said  Antoine,  "  to  play  instead  of  M.  Char- 
retteur,  if  he  w^as  not  here." 

"  Well,  he's  gone.    Isn't  that  the  same  thing?  " 

"  It  is  his  programme,"  explained  Antoine.  "  I  cannot 
take  his  solos,  do  you  see  ?  " 

Mrs  Adler,  being  much  annoyed,  did  not  see.  "  I  must 
say  the  lot  of  you  are  pretty  hard  to  manage,"  she  observed. 
"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  The  money  calculation  was  in  the 
cold  eyes  fixed  on  him.  Antoine  had  never  met  it  full  be- 
fore, and  his  temper  slipped  his  hold  a  little. 

"  I  want  to  go,  if  you  please,"  said  he.  "  Of  course  I 
would  not  have  come  here,  if  it  was  only  to  interrupt  him, 
and  you  as  well.  I  will  play  my  programme,  and  not  his. 
Now  I  find  Monsieur  Duchatel " 

"  He  is  here,"  said  a  voice  behind. 

"  Oh,  Dr  Savigny,  how  charming,"  fluttered  Mrs  Adler, 
all  her  aspect  changing  on  the  instant. 

Savigny  gave  her  a  hand,  courteous  but  unmoved,  and  laid 
the  other  upon  Antoine.  The  boy  had  started  violently, 
and  coloured  with  clear  annoyance.  He  was  cross 
enough  already,  for  he  had  wasted  a  precious  afternoon 
among  a  mass  of  people  for  whom  he  did  not  care.  Mrs 
Adler's  society  and  his  grandfather's  did  not  overlap,  except 
in  the  matter  of  Duchatel,  who  went  everywhere.  This 
eminently  smart  American  circle  bored  him  ;  also  his  position 
in  the  house  was  anomalous,  and,  since  Duchatel  had  soon 
been  reft  away,  he  had  been  left  to  face  its  problems  alone. 


io6  SUCCESSION 

Jacques,  out  of  a  kind  of  sullen  mischief,  had  made  the 
position  as  difficult  for  him  as  possible,  and  as  absurd. 
Strange  women  had  sought  to  pet  him  simultaneously.  The 
dignity  so  cherished  by  his  uncle  had  been  assailed  by  flat- 
tery and  mockery,  on  either  side.  Yet  in  defending  it  he 
had  to  steer  clear  of  offence,  of  ladies  above  all,  or  his 
grandfather  would  certainly  be  vexed.  Thus  Antoine  had 
had  to  think  continuously,  on  lines  to  which  his  brain  was 
not  accustomed,  and  now  found  himself,  on  the  verge  of 
escape,  caught  by  the  person  in  the  world  whose  criticism 
he  most  dreaded. 

All  the  same,  the  doctor  brought  with  him,  into  that 
strange  room,  a  breath  of  accustomed  air.  Antoine,  listen- 
ing to  the  dialogue  with  Mrs  Adler,  revived  the  memory  of 
certain  odd  tones,  and  turns  of  phrase.  He  might  have 
found  leisure  to  be  amused — had  he  been  at  liberty.  But, 
as  soon  as  he  made  a  movement  to  escape  the  claw-like 
hand,  it  slipped  from  his  shoulder  down  his  arm,  and  en- 
circled his  wrist,  which  made  things  no  better.  "  I  have  to 
go,"  he  murmured,  pulling  gently. 

"  Dr  Savigny,"  said  Mrs  Adler,  who  had  not  missed  the 
distinguished  man's  tacit  familiarity,  "  if  you  know  this 
young  gentleman,  cannot  you  persuade  him  to  play  for  us? 
The  girls  have  been  teasing  him  do  it,  but  he's  perfectly 
obstinate." 

"  I  never  persuade,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  counsel  occasion- 
ally, or  recommend.  How  many  ices  have  you  eaten,  An- 
toine ?  " 

"  Two  or  three."  A'  look  crept  up.  "  Shall  I  get  you 
one?  " 

"  No ;  stand  still.  Why  can't  you  oblige  Madame,  when 
you  have  eaten  two  or  three  of  her  ices?  " 

"  Oh — voyons !  "  murmured  Antoine,  protesting  at  the 
manner  of  attack.  "  This  is  Monsieur  Charretteur's  pro- 
gramme, look."  He  held  a  little  card  to  Savigny,  one  of  his 
supple  fingers  under  the  name. 

"  Ha!    You  mean  you  can't  play  the  thing."    A  pause. 


THE    TYRANT  107 

"  Yes,  I  meant  that,"  said  Antoinc  thoughtfully.  "  I  am 
sorry  I  can't." 

"  Some  silly  notion  of  eticjuette,"  said  the  tyrant  to  Mrs 
Adler.  "  A  trifle  of  resentment,  and  more  jealousy.  That's 
my  diagnosis.  Among  the  lot  of  them,  it's  a  common  dis- 
ease." At  the  quotation  Antoine  bit  his  lip.  The  hostess 
did  not  even  recognise  it.  She  had  recovered  her  good- 
humour,  and  Savigny's  behaviour  put  the  boy  on  a  new 
plane.  He  might  even  be  worth  cultivating,  she  thought,  as 
an  ultimate  alternative  to  Jacques — for  Jacques  that  day 
had  gone  a  little  far. 

"  We  can  only  hope  he  will  favour  us  another  time,"  she 
said,  searching  her  memory  in  vain  for  Antoine's  name. 
"  And  compose  a  programme  for  himself."  Then  she  took 
leave  of  him  with  beneficence,  and  he  sighed  almost  audibly 
with  relief.  At  least,  thanks  to  Savigny,  she  did  not  intend 
to  complain  of  him  to  the  home  circle. 

"  Come  to  breakfast  to-morrow,"  said  the  tyrant,  when 
he  turned  round. 

"  First  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  eight.  Too  early  for  you  ?  " 

The  boy  frowned  faintly.  "  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
come." 

"  Good,"  said  Savigny,  and  kissed  his  brow  at  parting. 
"  Now  get  the  business  done  and  go  home,"  he  said  lower. 
"  You're  wanted." 


Jacques  heard  again  of  the  Lemaures  at  Bertrand's,  where 
he  went  to  dine.    It  was  as  though  he  could  not  escape  the 
I,  connection. 

:  Madame  Bertrand,  the  wife  of  the  concert  manager,  was 
\'.  among  his  lady  patronesses ;  and  as  they  were  extremely 
i,  wealthy  people,  and  gave  good  meals,  Jacques  went  there 
pretty  often.  Jacques  was  not  at  all  particular  about  his 
society,  having  been  through  every  stage  of  shadiness,  snob- 
bishness and  smartness  on  his  upward  career;  and  Mme. 
r.rrtrand  and  her  friends  in  his  better  times  amused  him. 


io8  SUCCESSION 

and  in  good  and  bad  times  alike  had  been  useful.  As  for 
him,  he  was  quite  capable  of  amusing  them  in  return,  only 
to-night  he  did  not  try. 

When  the  name  of  Lemaure  came  up,  he  had  only  been 
attending  with  half-an-ear  to  the  dinner-table  dialogues, 
which  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  savage  contempt  by  their 
futility,  so  that  his  attention  kept  drifting  away.  Jacques 
was  aware  at  intervals  of  capacities  far  above  the  level  of 
this  monde,  where  he  was  expected  to  act  the  tame  lion  to 
please  a  set  of  women  who  were  nothing  to  him,  to  whom 
his  gifts,  his  art,  and  even  the  vice  that  threatened  his  ruin, 
were  entertainment  purely.  To-night,  into  the  bargain,  he 
felt  desperately  ill,  and  needed  all  his  determination  not  to 
show  it  to  the  circle  of  sharp,  unfeeling  eyes.  After  his 
departure  from  the  Adlers  he  had  had,  as  though  in  revenge 
for  his  abstinence  there,  a  crisis  of  pain,  and  had  resorted 
in  despair  to  his  usual  remedy,  which  had  had  less  effect 
than  usual.  If  even  his  familiar  demon  of  strong  spirit 
failed  him,  he  had  nothing  to  envisage  but  defeat.  Defeat 
stared  him  in  the  face,  with  his  foot  on  the  upper  rung,  and 
his  hand  on  the  top  of  the  ladder.  He  felt  as  a  self-made 
man  must  feel,  that  to  be  ill  now  was  the  end  of  his  ambi- 
tions. Physical  disease,  even  that  which  arrives  unsought, 
has  an  especial  terror  for  the  strong,  lonely  worker.  It  is 
a  menace,  and  almost  a  disgrace.  But  this  was  infinitely 
worse,  for  it  was  an  illness  Jacques  had  made  himself ;  that 
was  the  finishing  humiliation,  intolerable  to  his  pride.  He 
had  believed  for  long  that  he  could  fight  it,  but  with  the 
memory  of  fall  after  fall,  his  hopes  began  to  ebb. 

He  still  felt  that  doctor  fellow's  eyes  upon  him,  so  keen, 
so  calm  in  their  discernment.  It  was  partly  to  avoid  the 
thought  of  Savigny  that  he  had  flown  to  society  again ;  but 
now  he  felt  if  possible  more  lonely  than  before.  Even  the 
food  that  lay  before  him  seemed  a  useless  farce.  In  the 
period  of  his  poverty,  not  so  far  distant,  he  would  have 
given  much  to  sit  at  a  table  like  this.  But  now  food  was 
before  his  eyes,  in  the  most  delicate  variety,  he  could  not  eat 


THE   TYRANT  109 

it.  He  loathed  it,  as  he  loathed  the  tricked-out  figures  who 
sat  about  tlie  table. 

Occasionally,  when  he  felt  he  could  no  longer  bear  the 
lights,  the  clatter  of  dishes,  the  women's  shrill  voices  ex- 
changing volleys  void  of  sense,  the  talk  and  laughter 
dropped  a  minute,  and  he  was  just  aware,  through  many 
closed  doors,  of  a  fine  and  distant  strain.  Jacques,  like  An- 
toine,  sufifered  largely  through  his  ears.  The  commonest 
sounds  had  become  avenging  demons,  springing  at  him  on 
the  least  occasion.  His  own  violin,  imperfect  in  timbre,  had 
joined  the  enemy  of  late,  and  taken  to  annoying  him  so  bit- 
terly that  he  could  barely  play.  The  only  hour  of  relief 
that  day  had  been  the  one  during  which  he  held  Antoine's 
beautiful  little  instrument  close  to  his  ears,  and  enveloped 
himself  in  his  own  music  from  the  senseless  noises  of  the 
world. 

That  violin's  voice  he  had  heard  when  he  had  entered  the 
house,  for  he  had  come  late,  and  the  rehearsal  was  already 
in  progress.  He  had  walked  down  the  passage  towards  the 
music-room  and  stopped  for  some  minutes  to  listen.  Had 
any  seen,  the  look  on  his  face  was  the  look  of  a  man  in  love. 
Jacques  was  in  love,  as  only  an  artist  can  be,  with  a  thing 
of  wood,  and  somewhat  bitterly  jealous  too.  Not  but  what 
the  gosse  could  play.  He  had  never  doubted  that,  since 
people  had  told  him  so,  whose  judgment  counted :  people 
like  Victor  Duchatel,  whom  Jacques  despised  and  admired 
in  about  equal  measure.  That  was  not  the  point :  only  the 
injustice  of  fate  to  Jacques,  to  lay  the  thing  in  his  arms  for 
half-an-hour,  and  then,  in  the  person  of  the  boy  Edgell,  to 
snatch  it  back. 

It  was  to  the  attainment  of  that  very  object,  a  good  in- 
strument, that  Charretteur  had  been  working,  endeavouring 
to  save  where  saving  was  not  in  the  blood.  Now  the  money, 
what  there  was  of  it,  must  go  to  the  doctors,  he  supposed : 
a  doctor — not  that  fellow  with  the  eyes,  of  course.  Jacques, 
to  escape  the  image  of  Savigny,  began  to  recite  desperately 
to  himself  the  names  of  all  the  doctors  he  knew,  hot  and  cold 


no  SUCCESSION 

alternately,  trying  the  effort  of  brain  to  keep  his  senses 
clear. 

"  Yes,  the  younger  Lemaure's  a  bit  of  a  stick,"  said 
Madame  Bertrand,  a  gay  lady  with  a  high  voice ;  "  but  the 
little  boy's  amusing.  Guy  says  I  mustn't  tease  him  any  more, 
because  I  made  him  cry  last  week,  and  the  Lemaures  might 
hear  of  it.  They  keep  him  close — old  style,  you  know,  very 
stiff.  But  he  knows  a  thing  or  two,  and  he  has  a  tongue ! 
He'll  break  out,  one  of  these  days,  so  I  told  Guy." 

"  Have  you  had  him  here  ?  "  said  somebody. 

"  More  than  once.  That  sort's  no  fun  unless  you  get  him 
alone.  He  has  '  du  toupet '  I  promise  you.  You  never 
know  what  will  come  out  next,  tears  or  tantrums,  if  he  is 
really  stirred.  And  his  playing,  they  all  say,  is  extraor- 
dinary. I  tell  Guy  it's  all  very  well,  but  you  can't  be  an 
utter  innocent  to  play  like  that." 

The  company  in  general  agreed.  They  greatly  preferred, 
at  least,  that  a  boy  of  fifteen  should  not  be  an  utter  in- 
nocent. 

"  He's  rehearsing  here  this  evening,"  said  Madame  Fau- 
chard,  a  kind,  slow  woman,  and  an  intimate  of  the  family, 
"  with  his  uncle." 

"  I  told  Guy  to  bring  them  in  when  they  had  done," 
Madame  Bertrand  informed  her  guests.  "  But  we  sha'n't 
get  the  child  to  say  anything,  when  the  uncle's  there.  We 
asked  them  to  make  use  of  our  room  whenever  they  wanted. 
They  are  only  too  glad,  for  their  place  is  a  long  way  out, 
and  tiny — oh,  minute.  Resources?  My  dear,  what  artist 
of  an  advanced  age  ever  had  them?  But  Guy  said  one 
should  do  the  civil  thing  by  the  old  man,  for  though  he's  a 
wreck  now  it's  a  good  name.  Besides,  if  the  boy  should 
make  something  of  it " 

"  One  never  knows,"  her  neighbour  agreed.  "  He  was 
rather  chic  at  the  Adlers' ;  wasn't  he,  Jacques  ?  " 

Charretteur  shrugged.  He  had  already  been  treated  to 
teasing  by  those  who  had  been  at  the  Adlers',  but  he  had 
not  been  drawn.    He  rather  wished  they  would  go  on  talk- 


THE   TYRANT  in 

ing  of  the  Lemaures — the  family  who  possessed  the  violin — 
hut  he  was  too  proud  to  question.  Towards  the  middle  of 
dinner,  when  he  was  beginning  to  consider  the  chances  of 
escape,  the  host  Bertrand  came  in,  with  a  short,  grey-haired 
man  of  composed  appearance,  whom  Charretteur  recognised 
as  the  younger  Lemaure.  Lucien  looked  small  and  dry  as 
usual,  but  he  had  the  unconscious  ease  of  the  Lemaures  in 
manner  and  gesture,  that  gift  for  moving  and  speaking 
naturally  and  neatly  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  at  once  effective 
and  unpretentious.  He  came  round  to  the  hostess's  side  a 
minute  before  he  took  his  place,  and  Jacques,  forcing  him- 
self to  attend,  noticed  how  the  fair  Madame  Bertrand's 
exuberance  seemed  to  shrink  beneath  his  eye. 

"  But  wdiat  have  you  done  with  him  ? "  she  protested. 
"  You  see,  Reine,  these  people  simply  will  not  show  their 
treasure.    It  is  despairing." 

"  For  the  moment,"  said  Lucien's  well-bred,  sharp  tone, 
"  my  treasure  is  not  presentable." 

"  How — he  is  ill  ?  " 

Lucien's  gesture  spoke.    "  We  will  say  so,  Madame." 

"  Naughty,  then."  A  ripple  of  amusement  ran  round  the 
company.  "  Tell  us  what  happened,  Guy,"  Madame  Ber- 
trand said  to  her  husband. 

"  Nothing  will  induce  me,"  said  that  gentleman,  taking 
his  place.  "  I  leave  the  question  of  direction,  apart  from  the 
concerts,  entirely  to  Lemaure.  Monsieur  Edgell  is  a  trifle 
exalte  after  his  efforts,  and  will  not  honour  us."  He  looked 
at  his  wife.    "  It  may  be  Jacques  to  whom  he  objects." 

"  Throw  Jacques  overboard,"  said  Madame  Bertrand, 
flushing  rather.  She  had  counted  on  the  attraction.  "  Guy, 
go  and  fetch  the  little  silly,  do  you  hear.  Nobody  will  bite 
him." 

"  Go  yourself,  my  friend,"  said  Bertrand,  who  seemed 
amused  and  was  telling  the  tale  low-voiced  to  a  friend. 
"  At  your  peril." 

"  I'll  take  him  something,"  cried  Madame  Fauchard,  half 
rising,  a  hand  on  a  dish. 


112  SUCCESSION 

"  I  entreat  you,"  said  M.  Lemaure  very  earnestly,  "  not 
to  move.  A  little  starving  will  be  good  for  him."  And  he 
proceeded  himself  to  dine  with  great  composure. 

"  Men  have  so  little  tact,"  pouted  Madame  Bertrand.  "  I 
am  sure  I  could  have  persuaded  him.  What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at,  Guy  ?  Why  can't  you  tell  me  what  he  said  ?  " 

"  Lemaure  was  more  than  tactful,"  said  Bertrand.  "  He 
was  ingenious.  When  Monsieur  his  nephew  refused  to 
move,  he  bade  me  turn  the  lights  out  in  the  music-room. 
He  said  it  would  be  as  good  as  a  douche  for  the  little  one, 
because  he  dreads  the  dark.  Sure  enough,  he  tracked  us  as 
far  as  the  vestibule.  He  is  left  there,  sitting  like  a  mes- 
senger. He  is  really  a  killing  actor — the  servants  were  con- 
vulsed." 

"  But  what  a  shame,"  murmured  Madame  Fauchard. 
"  Two  hours  rehearsal — he  must  be  dying  of  hunger." 

"  That  is  the  other  moral  inducement — hey,  Lemaure  ? 
He  can  smell  the  food  from  there." 

"  But  it  is  treating  him  like  an  animal,"  Fauchard's  wife 
protested,  still  alone,  to  her  neighbour  Lucien. 

"  That  is  the  treatment  one  deserves,"  muttered  M.  Le- 
maure, and  she  saw  he  had  been  both  vexed  and  worried 
exceedingly.  Lucien  indeed  was  to  be  pitied.  The  problem 
of  keeping  a  boy  as  quick  as  his  charge,  in  the  mixed  society 
he  was  daily  more  obliged  to  frequent,  from  knowledge 
beyond  his  years,  was  often  vaguely  upon  his  mind.  He 
had  not  annoyed  his  father,  with  whose  ideals  of  liberty 
Lucien  did  not  agree.  He  was  simply  nervously  resentful 
of  the  state  of  things,  and  inclined  to  be  over-sharp  with  the 
boy  for  a  form  of  excitement  he  felt  he  could  neither  fore- 
stall, nor  remedy.  Of  all  the  problems  of  precocity,  this 
was  the  most  intimately  annoying. 

"  I  remember  being  afraid  of  the  dark,"  said  Charretteur, 
in  his  harsh,  uneven  voice.  Jacques  was  spying  at  Lucien 
the  pedagogue  furtively.  His  own  youthful  experience  had 
comprised  only  one  form  of  education,  and  he  had  no  idea 
but  that  Antoine  suffered  the  same.     The  little  fellow  Le- 


THE    TYRANT  .113 

maure  looked  sour  enough,  feeding  himself  with  that  line 
upon  his  brow ;  and  he  could  obviously  laugh  at  nervous 
terror,  that  most  cruel  of  all  youthful  torments.  That  ter- 
ror had  returned,  with  complications,  to  Charretteur  of 
late. 

"  There,"  said  Madame  Fauchard.  "  Jacques  agrees.  See 
now,  you  go  to  the  baby,  and  take  some  food.  Genius 
understands  itself." 

The  proposal  was  acclaimed  with  laughter,  by  all  but 
Lucien ;  and  oddly  enough,  Charretteur  did  not  resist  it, 
but  rose  tamely  to  follow  the  suggestion.  His  brain  could 
take  in  little  more  than  the  fact  that  it  offered  a  plausible 
chance  of  escape.    He  took  the  plate  offered  and  rose. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  heard  Madame  Bertrand's  high  voice  say, 
"  there  is  more  where  this  came  from,  if  he  will  be  a  good 
boy  and  come  and  talk  to  us.  Our  conversation  is  very 
amusing,  and  suitable ;  and  his  uncle  shall  not  touch  him 
while  we  are  there." 

"  Jacques  will  do  him  no  harm,"  Madame  Fauchard 
added  soothingly  to  Lucien.  "  For  once  he  has  not  been 
drinking.  On  my  word,"  she  added  to  the  table,  "  he  is 
better  company  when  he  has.  Isn't  he  losing  all  his  sparkle, 
Jacques?    He  will  be  as  dull  as  anybody  soon." 

They  fell  into  tales  of  Charretteur's  adventures,  the 
escapades  by  which  he  had  marked  himself  and  pushed  his 
way ;  and  Lucien,  attracted  by  the  scandal,  attended.  He 
did  not  care  for  his  surroundings,  and  Madame  Bertrand, 
in  particular,  affected  his  nerves ;  but  he  was  not  oblivious 
either  of  the  excellence  of  the  repast,  or  of  the  value  of 
patronage  to  a  rising  artist,  and  he  bore  with  the  frivolous 
little  party  long — as  he  told  himself,  for  the  boy's  sake. 

"  The  boy,"  meanwhile,  sat  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand  in  the  Bertrands'  vestibule.  The  servants  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  him,  and  having  tried  a  little  teasing 
in  the  style  of  their  betters,  and  then  a  little  sympathy, 
retired  and  left  him  to  himself.  No  one  had  offered  him 
food,  which  was  what  he  most  needed  after  the  work  and 


114  SUCCESSION 

subsequent  agitation  of  the  evening.  Jacques,  who  had  a 
kind  of  freemasonry  with  the  servants  of  the  fashionable 
houses  he  visited,  caught  the  eye  of  the  valet  on  emerging 
from  the  lighted  dining-room,  and  the  man  came  instantly 
near  to  confide.  The  story,  like  Bertrand's,  appeared  to  be 
diverting;  but  Jacques  did  not  smile,  though  he  had  little 
love  for  his  hostess. 

"  That's  what's  wrong  with  him,"  finished  the  man.  The 
boy's  instinctive  and  savage  aversion  from  the  w^oman  to 
whose  fashion  of  tormenting  he  could  find  no  reply,  had 
already  served  to  entertain  her  household,  for  he  had  be- 
trayed it  pretty  freely  at  every  meeting.  Among  the  various 
performing  animals  w'ho  frequented  these  rooms  in  the  sea- 
son, of  whom  Jacques  himself  was  one,  Antoine  took  the 
place  of  a  rather  dangerous  variety  of  monkey.  Lately, 
goaded  by  his  uncle's  tongue,  he  had  used  her  name ;  and 
the  servants,  following  the  example  set  by  her  husband, 
had  simply  laughed  during  the  subsequent  storm.  "  He's 
writing  something  there  for  the  fellow  that  brought  him," 
said  the  valet.  "  I've  been  waiting  about  to  stop  him  if  he 
cuts." 

"  You  needn't  wait,"  said  Jacques.  "  I'll  see  to  it."  As 
the  man  disappeared,  he  passed  to  Antoine's  side,  and  stood 
there,  looking  him  over  attentively,  plate  in  hand.  "  There's 
a  ring  of  them,  all  grinning,  waiting  for  you  in  there,"  he 
said,  in  his  strong,  rather  harsh  voice.  "  She  told  me  to  let 
you  know." 

"  I  hate  her,"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes  on  the  table.  Before 
him  lay  a  card,  scrawled  in  his  odd,  bold  hand  with  a  mes- 
sage to  his  uncle.  Jacques  bent  to  look  at  it  with  his  short- 
sighted eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  apparent  approval,  "  you  won't 
catch  it  worse  for  that  than  you  will  already.  Why  don't 
you  go  ?  " 

"  The  violin  is  down  there,"  was  Antoine's  answer.  He 
nodded  towards  the  music-room  passage,  unlighted,  and 
raised  his  eyes  to  Jacques'  face.    A  very  odd  look  it  was, 


THE   TYRANT  115 

apprehensive,  dubious — rather  desperate.  Antoine's  posi- 
tion had  just  become  desperate  when  Jacques  appeared.  He 
was  bound,  obviously,  to  infuriate  everybody  to-night ;  but 
on  the  whole,  his  grandfather's  fury  was  the  safest,  and  that 
haven  was  the  one  in  his  mind.  ''  He  made  it  quite  dark," 
he  murmured,  his  clever  long  fingers  supporting  his  head. 

"  I'll  g-get  it,"  said  Jacques,  after  a  pause ;  and  laying 
down  the  plate,  with  one  cautious  glance  about  him,  he  went. 
"  There  you  are,"  he  said,  when  he  stood  again  by  the  gosse's 
side,  in  a  superior  tone.  "  Now  come  along.  It's  time  kids 
like  you  were  in  bed.  Bring  the  bread  along  if  you  like." 
For,  in  his  absence,  Antoine  had  found  the  food,  and  was 
devouring  it  eagerly,  like  a  famished  little  animal.  While 
Jacques  watched,  he  seized  the  soup-plate,  and  tipped  the 
remainder  down  his  throat,  licking  his  lips  thereafter. 

Jacques,  smiling  slightly — a  smile  that  said  he  knew  the 
breed — held  the  door  open  a  crack.  The  air,  coming  from 
the  outer  world,  up  a  single  flight  of  stairs,  spoke  for  itself. 
The  boy's  eyes  brightened  as  he  sniffed  it,  gazing  that  way. 
Jacques  appeared  to  Antoine's  mind,  if  not  quite  an  angel, 
at  least  an  inspired  person,  and  in  the  matter  of  pure  reason, 
equalled  by  few.  It  was  far  easier  to  take  the  extreme  step 
he  had  contemplated,  with  this  support.  Simultaneously  a 
high  voice,  reaching  him  from  the  dining-room,  made  him 
shiver  angrily.  Where  that  voice  figured,  duty  was  not  in 
the  reckoning,  he  was  sure.  It  was  a  bad  thing,  beyond  the 
pale  of  what,  for  public  reasons,  he  could  be  expected  to 
tolerate.  As  for  his  uncle — was  there  not  that  card  on  the 
table,  his  own  idea?  He  settled  the  card  in  place  with  a 
delicate  touch,  took  the  violin  in  one  hand  and  the  bread  in 
the  other,  and  followed  M.  Charretteur  through  the  door. 
It  shut  behind  them — the  echoes  of  the  high  voice  vanished 
— they  were  in  the  street.  The  solution  to  a  complicated 
social  problem  was  very  simple,  when  one  came  to  think. 
It  is  delicious  to  walk  in  the  night  air,  v/ith  a  sympathetic 
friend,  beneath  the  stars.  He  ran  a  hand  through  Jacques' 
arm,  so  greatly  he  was  pleased  by  the  change. 


Ii6  SUCCESSION 

Had  Lucien  had  a  little  more  intuitive  knowledge  of  An- 
toine's  age,  and  of  the  actual  state  of  his  mind  and  spirit's 
growth,  he  would  have  known  it  must  occur.  It  was  in- 
finitely more  obvious  and  natural  than  the  sympathy  for 
Duchatel.  The  ages  round  twenty  have,  in  the  first  place, 
an  irresistible  attraction  for  the  ages  round  fifteen.  Further, 
Jacques  was  beyond  question  an  accomplished  artist,  who 
had  won  the  boy's  frank  admiration,  and  played  his  violin. 
Lastly  he  had  arrived  by  fortune's  guidance  at  a  critical 
moment,  in  order  to  save  Antoine  from  great  doubt  and 
misery  of  mind,  and  to  restore  his  powers  with  excellent 
soup  and  bread.  All  the  Lemaure  instincts,  primitive, 
dramatic  and  artistic,  had  required  such  an  appearance  when 
he  came;  and  the  boy  was  ready  to  adopt  him,  without 
further  question,  as  a  guide  and  interpreter  on  his  difficult 
way. 

On  the  other  side,  Jacques,  being  a  twenty-year-old,  was 
perfectly  aware  of  his  power,  and  the  effect  he  had  pro- 
duced. From  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting  that  day  he 
had  been  aware  of  it,  and  it  had  amused  him  beneath  all  his 
show  of  jealousy  and  caprice.  In  his  self-contempt  it  was 
even  a  curious  consolation,  this  innocently  betrayed  ad- 
miration of  a  younger  boy.  And  it  was  notable  that,  des- 
perate and  wretched  as  he  was,  he  did  not  now  abuse  it, 
when  he  had  the  chance. 

"  You  needn't  come  with  me,"  Antoine  assured  him 
politely,  still  holding  his  arm.  "  These  streets  are  all  quite 
light." 

"  I'm  coming,  of  course,"  growled  Jacques.  "  Got  any 
money,  kid?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine,  having  investigated.  "  Haven't  you? 
Never  mind,  I  know  the  way."  He  prepared  to  conduct  M. 
Charretteur,  much  pleased  and  elated  at  his  situation,  and 
as  easy  in  his  company  as  though  he  had  been  Philip.  He 
walked  well  and  lightly,  and  Jacques  had  some  ado  to  fol- 
low him.  Antoine  had  also  to  do  the  conversation  for  two, 
but  that  was  never  beyond  his  powers.    His  companion  in- 


THE   TYRANT  117 

lerrupted  little,  but  he  stopped  now  and  again,  leaning  on 
a  hand  as  though  to  rest.  He  did  not  seem  to  wish  the 
action  to  be  noticed,  and  Antoine  made  no  remark.  Plis  dark 
eyes  dwelt  at  moments  on  his  companion's  movements,  or 
on  his  face,  but  exactly  how  much  they  absorbed  of  his 
condition,  or  exactly  how  much  his  understanding  had  ab- 
sorbed in  advance,  Jacques  himself  could  not  divine.  The 
gaze  was  generally  vague,  and  his  tongue,  that  convenient 
and  hardly  worked  member,  was  going  ceaselessly  all  the 
time.  He  commented  freely  on  the  things  they  passed, 
glanced  obliquely  off  any  reminder  of  Madame  Bertrand 
or  his  professional  work,  chattered  a  little  of  the  violin, 
since  his  companion  seemed  interested,  and  branched  to  his 
family  on  suggestion. 

"You've  a  grandfather,"  said  Jacques.     "What  else?" 

"  A  father." 

"  Never — a  real  one?    A  real  mother  as  well,  no  doubt." 

"  No ;  my  mother  is  dead." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Jacques  recklessly.  "  So  is 
mine.  Here,  where  are  you  making  for,  orphan!  This  is 
the  way." 

The  boy,  following  a  twisting  line  of  his  own  to  the 
markets  and  the  quays,  turned  with  decision  down  a  small 
street.  After  a  second's  hesitation,  Jacques  went  after. 
"  It's  all  right,"  he  admitted.  "  You  know  the  town  better 
than  I  do.    I  thought  Victor  said  you  trained  in  England." 

"  Only  three  years.    Three  years  I  was  here." 

"  Three,  plus  three,"  scoffed  Jacques.  "  How  old  were 
you  here  ? " 

"  Eight,  nine,  ten,"  the  boy  said  briefly.  "  When  I  was 
ten  I  knew  all  Paris.    I  have  forgotten  rather." 

"  Played  truant,  hey?  "  said  Jacques. 

"  No ;  not  often.  I  did  things  for  them.  My  uncle  told 
me  the  way  generally,  but  grandpapa  never  did." 

"  Grandpapa's  in  his  dotage,  I  suppose."  Jacques  had 
stopped,  and  was  looking  away  towards  the  river,  a  frown 
on  his  averted  face. 


Ii8  SUCCESSION 

"  No,"  said  Antoine ;  "  only,  you  see,  he  has  lived  in 
Paris  all  his  life,  so  I  suppose  he  thought  I  knew.  I  didn't 
always." 

He  had  stopped  also,  at  Jacques'  side.  After  a  minute 
or  two,  as  his  companion  did  not  offer  to  move,  he  gently 
detached  the  violin  from  his  slackened  hand.  "  It  is  easy 
from  here,"  he  explained  the  action. 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  like,"  returned  Jacques,  with  exactly 
the  snap  of  an  animal  in  pain.  The  boy  hesitated  in  doubt, 
then  moved  on.  He  was  at  no  great  distance  up  the  dimly 
lighted  street  when  Jacques  discovered  that,  pain  or  none, 
he  could  not  let  him  go.  Affinities  are  inexplicable  things, 
and  he  had  found  one,  in  that  short  time,  through  the 
medium  of  the  quite  superficial  ideas  they  had  exchanged. 
The  boy  suited  him,  like  the  violin — it  is  possible  the  iden- 
tities were  a  little  confused  in  his  mind — and  both  were  a 
link  with  safety.  Cursing  his  own  folly,  Jacques  still 
plodded  in  Antoine's  wake,  he  remaining  unaware  of  it, 
until  an  incident  occurred  to  awaken  both. 

That  was  when,  in  the  dingy  neighbourhood  of  the 
markets,  a  skulking  figure  snarled  something  vile  to  the  boy 
in  passing,  unobservant  of  the  taller  shadow  behind.  Jac- 
ques, rousing  instantly  at  the  call  to  action,  as  though  quite 
relieved  at  the  discovery  of  any  definable  aim  in  life,  sent 
the  skulker  spinning  across  the  road,  with  a  single  turn  of 
his  wonderful  wrists. 

"  He  was  drunk,"  Antoine  said  briefly,  without  thanking 
him,  or  even  glancing  round,  as  he  drew  alongside.  He 
had  undoubtedly  heard,  Jacques  reflected,  and  he  was  no 
fool.  He  felt  the  weight  of  genuine  intellect  in  every  word 
he  said,  elliptical  and  childish  as  the  phrasing  was.  It  was 
no  illusion,  the  power  he  possessed  to  help ;  and  Jacques, 
who  acted  on  instincts  always,  as  an  animal  upon  scent, 
trusted  him  before  the  next  half-hour  had  passed  with 
most  of  his  secret.  Still  under  the  stimulus  of  that  slight 
physical  excitement,  he  began  to  confide  in  turn ;  and  An- 
toine heard,  by  slow  degrees  and  in  laboured  language,  of 


THE   TYRANT  119 

the  "  £-friend  "  who  was  looking  for  a  doctor  to  cure  him 
of  a  mysterious  and  fateful  ill.  The  f-friend  was  a  very- 
poor  disguise,  considering  Jacques'  eager  and  stuttering 
fashion  in  speaking  of  him ;  but  the  boy,  as  before,  re- 
spected it  attentively. 

As  they  lagged  side  by  side  up  the  long  hill,  and  later 
resting  in  a  shady  place  near  the  dark  masses  of  the 
schools,  Antoine  told  his  companion  all  about  the  only 
doctor  he  knew — a  hesitating,  deeply  considered  description 
that  it  was  a  thousand  pities  that  doctor  could  not  overhear. 
He  was  very  earnest  on  the  subject  of  Savigny ;  yet  in- 
nocently in  two  minds  himself  whether  he  could  safely  rec- 
ommend to  Jacques,  or  rather  Jacques'  acquaintance,  a  per- 
son of  such  petrifying  qualities. 

"  Dr  Bronne  is  nice,"  he  said  at  one  stage  wistfully. 
"  But  Savigny  is  much  the  best.  Grandpapa  has  said  that 
a  lot  of  times,  and  he  knows  about  it.  Savigny  talks  about 
his  things  to  him  and  my  uncle  much  more  than  to  me. 
Perhaps  " — he  hesitated — "  your  friend  would  not  like  him 
at  first.  One  has  to  be  careful  with  him  a  little — Savigny. 
Only  he  is  not  really  mcchant,  do  you  see?" 

"  I  expect,"  he  said,  at  a  later  point  of  the  persuasion,  "  it 
is  horribly  hard,  the  things  he  does.  That  is  what  makes 
him  angry.  It  is  awful  how  they  have  to  be,  doctors  like 
him.  Grandpapa  says  he  bears  the  troubles  of  all  the 
world — so  of  course  he  seems  impatient.  I  expect,"  he  re- 
sumed again,  as  Jacques  had  nothing  to  say,  his  brows  still 
more  earnestly  bent  on  the  problem,  "  it  is  kinder  really  to 
be  like  he  was  to  me  in  the  Clinique.  I  was  much  more 
easily  afraid  then,  of  course."  He  sighed,  reflecting  on  his 
summons  for  the  morrow.  "  Only,"  he  advised  softly, 
"  you  had  better  tell  him  the  things  at  once,  even  the  most 
horrible ;  because  anyhow  he  will  make  you,  with  his  eyes." 

"  Curse  his  eyes,"  said  Jacques  unexpectedly. 

"You  have  seen  him,  hein?"  said  Antoine,  with  instant 
sympathy.  "  Voyons,"  he  slid  a  supple  hand  round  Char- 
retteur's  arm,  "  if  you  came  to  see  grandpapa  a  little.  He 
will  not  have  gone  to  bed." 


I20  SUCCESSION 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  said  Jacques  uncertainly. 
"  Unless,"  he  added,  after  a  space,  "  you  are  afraid  to  go 
in  alone." 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid,"  Antoine  assured  him.  "  Perhaps  it 
is  ten  now.  After  ten  it  is  extremely  dark  upon  our 
stairs." 

Thus  was  Jacques,  hardly  able  to  reason  on  his  fate, 
pushed  the  next  stage  of  the  way ;  for,  having  fought  the 
gosse's  battle  in  the  market-place,  it  was  impossible  to  let 
him  climb  up  the  dark  stairs  alone;  with  a  reception  un- 
known, perchance  ill-treatment,  awaiting  him  at  the  top. 

Jacques,  having  speculated  largely  about  Lucien,  had  not 
troubled  his  imagination  greatly  as  to  M.  Lemaure.  He 
judged  he  would  be,  in  the  character  of  the  "  patron's  " 
father,  either  a  silly  or  a  savage  old  man.  But  his  be- 
haviour to  his  grandson  that  night  could  not  well  fall  un- 
der either  title.  He  scolded  Antoine  a  little,  it  was  true* 
but  in  a  manner  to  Jacques  so  entirely  novel,  that  he  found 
it,  dazed  as  he  was,  absorbing. 

"  It  is  you,  my  children  ?  "  he  queried,  as  they  entered, 
bending  his  brows  to  peer  round  the  lamp. 

"  It  is  only  me,"  said  the  boy,  breathless  with  his  rapid 
climb.  "  We  have  left  him  in  the  dining-room,  with  Ber- 
trand  and  his  ladies.    Here  is  M.  Charretteur." 

The  old  man  roused.  "  Pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  assumed 
it  was  my  son."  He  extended  a  hand.  "  You  bring  this 
animal  home  then,  Monsieur." 

"  We  left  together,"  stammered  Jacques,  feeling  vaguely 
for  his  manners.  He  was  not  at  all  prepared  to  have  them 
claimed. 

*'  My  uncle  doesn't  know  I  came,"  Antoine  elucidated 
rapidly.  "  At  least  now  he  knows,  of  course,  because  I 
have  not  gone  back.  I  left  a  little  thing  on  the  table  in  the 
vestibule  to  show^  him.  He  was  having  dinner  with  her 
inside,  because  when  I  told  Bertrand  I  would  not,  of  course 
he  had  to  be  polite.    He  did  not  want  to  dine  there  either, 


THE   TYRANT  121 

and  he  was  furious  with  me.  He  had  not  seen  how  I  was 
at  Mrs  Adler's.  I  was  quite  polite  to  her.  I  picked  up 
her  handkerchief  once,  and  it  smelt  horrible.  I  cannot  go 
on  being  polite  for  thirty  hours,  with  people  who  smell 
like  that." 

"  Psst,"  said  the  old  man,  frowning  slightly  down  at  him 
as  he  crouched  by  his  side.  "  How  ill-mannered  and  un- 
necessary." 

"  You  are  vexed,  hein  ?  "  said  Antoine. 

"  I  am,  my  little  one.  It  is  not  fair  to  Lucien.  Bertrand 
is  of  importance." 

"  And  his  wife  is  so  beautiful,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Beautiful  or  not,  it  is  your  business  to  behave." 

"  He  will  say  I  am  mad  or  something,"  said  Antoine. 
"  They  will  only  laugh.  Yes,  he  will  be  rather  angry,  when 
he  comes.  But  if  she  had  spoken  to  me  in  that  voice,  I 
should  have  made  a  face  at  her — I  should  have  been  obliged 
— and  then  he  would  have  been  more  furious,  wouldn't 
he?" 

He  dropped  his  head  upon  his  folded  arms.  M.  Le- 
maure  put  a  hand  on  the  head  and  looked  at  Charretteur, 
who  shrugged  simply. 

"  You  walked  the  whole  way  home  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  wanted  to,"  Antoine  cut  in  on  Jacques'  attempt.  "  I 
was  not  reasonable  to-night.  Do  you  know  who  that  is?" 
He  flung  a  hand  back. 

"  To  be  sure.    Most  people  should  know." 

"  He  liked  the  violin,"  said  Antoine,  by  way  of  introduc- 
tion. "  I  let  him  carry  it  a  little.  Talk  to  him,  hein  ? — 
because  I  must  go  to  my  room." 

"  You  are  tired,  my  love,"  was  the  old  man's  answer  to 
this,  in  a  decidedly  troubled  tone.  The  boy's  restless  fingers 
were  teasing  his  while  he  talked,  and  his  dilated  eyes  shone 
in  the  lamplight  under  a  brow  painfully  tense. 

"  No,  no ;  I  am  very  well,"  he  answered ;  "  only  it  has 
been  a  stupid  day — rate,  you  understand.  If  my  uncle 
wants  me,  I  shall  not  be  in  bed.    To-morrow " 


122  SUCCESSION 

"  Well,  what  of  to-morrow?  " 

"  To-morrow  I  go  to  Savigny  at  eight." 

"  To  Savigny  ?  "  The  guardian's  attention  concentrated 
visibly. 

"  He  said  so — I  saw  him  at  that  place.  It  is  to  go  to 
breakfast — no !  "  He  slid  an  arm  about  his  grandfather's 
neck,  reaching  to  touch  the  frown  with  the  tips  of  his  fine 
fingers.    No  one  could  have  helped  smiling. 

"  I  wish  to  understand,  darling,  that  is  all.  Raymond  is 
to  talk  to  you,  or  you  to  him?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  tell  him  some  things."  He  paused  and 
bit  his  lip.  The  old  man  saw  the  trouble  in  his  eyes  very 
well.  "  I  don't  know  how  long  I  shall  stay,  into  the  morn- 
ing, so  I  will  get  up  earlier,  at  half-past  five.  You  will 
tell  him  that  as  well  ?  " 

"  I  advise  you  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Lucien's 
father. 

"  Why  ?  "  Antoine  demanded.  "  I  will  go  au  sixieme. 
You  shall  not  hear." 

"  If  I  could,  my  child,  I  should  not  be  content  merely 
to  advise.    I  might  insist." 

"  Insist !  "  The  boy  laughed  a  little,  though  he  was  half 
crying  with  pure  fatigue.  The  rare  bond  of  friendship, 
bridging  two  generations,  had  never  been  more  apparent. 
It  was  incredible  almost  to  Jacques,  who  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it  in  his  experience  compact  of  monotonous 
neglect  and  irregular  cruelty.  The  master  of  the  house, 
looking  up,  met  his  curious  eyes. 

"  I  am  sure  Monsieur  will  support  me,"  he  said,  "  that 
grandfathers  are  permitted  to  insist." 

"  He  has  no  grandfathers,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  is  too 
old,  I  think." 

"  You  will  not  have  one  long,  unless  you  release  his 
throat."  He  laughed,  as  Antoine  pulled  away  his  hands  in 
haste.  "  A  pity  to  destroy  me,  hey  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  am  too 
useful  as  mediator.  Go  now,  my  little  one,"  he  added, 
without  a  change  of  tone:    and  Antoine  went. 


THE   TYRANT  123 

M.  Lemaure  had  gathered  a  good  deal  as  to  Charretteur's 
state  and  history,  and  he  discovered  the  rest  without  much 
time  or  trouble  wasted  on  the  way ;  for  the  young  man  was 
helpless,  and  for  the  moment  broken  by  pain.  He  asked 
him  but  f ew^  questions,  for  he  was  pitiful ;  and  he  offered 
even  his  skilled  advice  with  a  gentleness  and  deprecation 
Savigny  would  certainly  have  scorned.  But  Jacques,  to 
him,  seemed  very  young;  and  the  force  he  was  in  danger 
of  wasting  completely  seemed  worth  his  most  exquisite 
efforts  to  save. 

"  You  mean  to  fight,  then  ?  "  he  said  at  last,  leaning  back 
to  observe  the  wreck  his  visitor  looked,  almost  in  w^onder. 

"  The  worst  fight  of  all."  Charretteur  clenched  his  long 
hands,  as  he  crouched  to  the  fire.  "  For  I  shall  not  abstain. 
I  do  not  intend  to." 

"  You  cannot  do  it,  my  friend,"  said  M.  Lemaure  very 
earnestly.  "  You  cannot  do  it  alone.  I  would  not  have 
you  try.  Listen  now,  and  have  patience.  Not  even  a  god 
could  do  what  you  would  attempt.  You  are  not  a  god, 
but  a  man  out  of  health." 

"  I  realise  the  strain,"  said  Jacques. 

"  Perhaps.    Not  the  solitude." 

"  I'm  used  to  solitude." 

"  Not  such  as  you  will  face.  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  met 
the  thing  before.  These  devils  are  not  unknown  to  me, 
during  sixty  years.  The  best  of  us  reach  a  point  where  we 
cannot  stand  alone.  I  have  reached  mine,  long  since.  You, 
for  the  moment,  are  in  equal  need.  Why  not  take  friend- 
ship, then  ?  " 

"Whose?" 

"  Savigny  is  ready  for  you — waiting,  I  might  say.  On 
my  honour,  he  is  the  finest  friend  a  man  could  have.  I 
do  not  mention,"  he  added  quickly,  "  my  grandson  and 
myself." 

"  I  will  not  have  you  or  him,"  said  Jacques.  "  I  will  not 
come  n-near  you.  I  shouldn't  have  touched  him  to-night 
— only  there   were  others  worse.     As  to  the   fellow  you 


124  SUCCESSION 

speak  of,  I  can't  say.  I  looked  at  him  a  bit.  He  has  a 
devil  equal  to  mine." 

"  He  is  my  friend,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  My  best  friend, 
to  whom  I  would  have  given  my  daughter." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacques,  with  a  cat-like  look  at  him  side- 
long. "  I  have  known  things  as  astonishing  even  as  that. 
I  suppose  you  have  never  seen  what  I  saw." 

"  Friends,"  the  other  repeated.  "  My  poor  child,  I  be- 
lieve you  do  not  know  what  friendship  means." 

"  I  don't  know.  How  should  I  ?  You  mean  to  say  a 
fellow  with  those  eyes  is  not  a  brute?  " 

"  Brute  is  the  last  thing  he  is.  He  has  perhaps,"  said 
M.  Lemaure  at  leisure,  "  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  god — 
of  a  fate.     He  is  relentless." 

"  That  clever  boy  is  f-frightened  to  death  of  him," 
jerked  Jacques. 

"  No,  no.  Nervous  perhaps.  Antoine  has  every  reason 
for  confidence.  To  be  sure,"  he  added,  after  a  moment, 
*'  nobody  likes  to  confess." 

"What  has  he  to  confess?"  said  Jacques, 

"  Failings :  we  all  have  them.  I  hate  myself  to  admit 
my  body  is  weak ;  yet  all  the  world  can  see  the  old  ma- 
chine." He  stretched  his  rheumatic  fingers,  and  regarded 
them  thoughtfully. 

Jacques,  who  had  risen,  subsided  again  by  the  table  in 
one  of  his  careless,  not  ungraceful  attitudes.  "  Yes,  you're 
old,"  he  said.  "  You  have  carried  it  through.  Did  you 
ever  hate  your  career? " 

"At  your  age?     Frequently." 

"  You  mean  it  ?  Yet  you  never  had  anything  but  suc- 
cess." 

"  Nor  you,  I  understand,  of  late." 

"  Oh,  lord,  yes — I  suppose  Fm  successful,  curse  the 
fools.    Fm  a  b-blight  on  the  world,"  said  Jacques. 

"  Do  not  flatter  yourself,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  peacefully 
warming  his  hands. 


THE    TYRANT  125 

Charretteur  gave  him  another  glance.  "  You've  the  gift 
of  humour,''  he  said.    "  I  beHeve  I've  lost  it." 

"  You  will  re-discover  its  value,  with  Savigny.  He  will 
rake  it  up,  be  sure,  with  all  your  embers." 

"  I  am  to  go  to  him,  then  ?  " 

"  I  counsel  you  to  go.     He  consults  to-morrow  at  ten." 

"  Not  at  eight  ?  "  said  Charretteur. 

"  Oh,  Bebe  goes  to  breakfast,  I  understand.  I  daresay 
Raymond  will  only  tease  him  a  little." 

"  You're  as  anxious  as  possible,"  said  Jacques  suddenly. 

"Ah — you  must  make  allowance  for  parents.  Now  " — he 
moved  with  decision  and  extended  a  hand — "  I  am  going 
to  turn  you  out,  young  sir.  Lucien  will  be  arriving,  and 
for  the  child's  sake,  I  had  better  be  alone  to  explain." 

Jacques  rose  at  once,  pushing  the  chair  with  a  clatter. 
He  touched  the  hand  doubtfully,  took  a  last  look  at  the 
violin  on  the  table,  prowled  about  it  a  little,  turned,  wa- 
vered, and  spoke. 

"  I  s-say,"  he  suggested,  "  you  won't  let  that  little  fellow 
thrash  him?  " 

"Thrash?    Lucien?    Mon  Dieu,  he  will  be  too  tired." 

"  You  can  laugh,"  Jacques  exclaimed. 

"  You  must  excuse  me.  But  really,  my  poor  son !  to 
take  charge  of  that  firework  all  day,  and  beat  him  in  the 
evening — it  is  too  much  to  expect."  Then,  as  Jacques  still 
stared,  wondering,  his  tone  changed.  "  Mon  cher  enfant," 
he  said,  "what  sort  of  life  have  you  led?"  He  rose  him- 
self, painful  as  all  his  movements  were,  and  took  the  young 
man  by  the  arms. 

"  A  life  like  lota  of  others,"  growled  Jacques.  "  I  insult 
you,  I  daresay,  by  supposing  it  could  be  yours." 

"  No,  no,  you  do  not  insult  me.  My  own  life  was  hard 
enough,  heaven  knows,  though  I  escaped  brutality.  I 
doubt,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  "  if  any  one  was  interested  in 
me  sufficiently.  There  was  less  hot  rivalry  in  my  day,  and 
more  flat  indifference.  Yes,"  he  said,  almost  with  im- 
patience, "  it  is  far  harder  nowadays,  to  struggle  to  the 


126  SUCCESSION 

front :  infinitely  harder.  And  that  is  what  you  have  done — 
alone  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  None  to  help  you,  hey  ?    No  women  ?  " 

"  None  you  would  counto"  He  pulled  away  from  the 
grasp. 

"I  count  all  women — what  are  you  to  judge  for  me?" 
Jacques  looked  down,  a  little  cowed  by  his  vivacity. 
"  Where,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  "  do  you  mean  to  pass  the 
night  ?  " 

"  You  n-needn't  be  anxious,"  gibed  Jacques.  "  The  com- 
pany will  be  good." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  ask  the  question.  But  you  are  the 
age  of  my  own  grandson,  and  I  ask." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jacques,  like  a  schoolboy.  "  I  shall 
pass  the  night  in  my  rat-hole  at  Montmartre — and  w-with 
my  violin." 

Antoine  went  to  Savigny  with  very  fair  exactitude,  after 
some  hours'  work  in  the  morning.  His  tongue  was  as  swift 
as  ever,  but  he  looked  languid,  and  seemed  more  restless 
than  usual.  The  doctor  was  engaged  in  writing  when  he 
entered  the  small  dining-room ;  so,  after  a  cursory  greet- 
ing, he  flung  himself  on  a  couch  by  the  window,  looking 
out  with  a  yawn.  This  and  the  neighbouring  room  were 
private  to  the  doctor,  but  to  Antoine's  mind  they  were 
within  the  dangerous  ring.  That  magic  ring  had  retained 
him,  for  the  five  most  terrible  months  of  his  life.  It  was 
not  a  prison  any  longer,  he  repeated  to  himself.  He  could 
open  the  door  and  go  when  he  wished.  Yet  he  felt  the 
walls  closing  round  him,  the  grip  of  the  old  hopeless  dread 
on  his  heart,  and  he  pressed  his  head  to  the  open  window, 
as  though  the  spring  air  drifting  in  relieved  the  trouble  of 
his  thoughts. 

Meanwhile,  Savigny  gave  his  notes  to  the  servant,  caught 
up  a  large  book,  and  made  some  rapid  entries. 

"  I  hate  accounts,"  he  observed.     "  Come  and  do  this 


THE   TYRANT  127 

column  for  me,  Antoine,  while  I  bring  my  engagements  up 
to  date.     Alight  as  well  be  useful,"  he  added,  in  a  mutter. 

Antoine  came  to  his  side,  and  leaning  one  hand  on  the 
table,  ran  the  other  fingers  slowly  up  the  column  of  heavy 
figures. 

"  What  a  lot  of  money,"  he  commented. 

"  Add  it,  and  don't  talk." 

"  I  have  done  it.  It  is  right."  Savigny  turned  quickly ; 
he  had  seemed  entirely  careless,  and  was  yawning  again. 

"  Do  the  next  page,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  re- 
lapsing. The  next  page  was  longer  still.  The  boy  made 
a  single  sound  of  annoyance  at  the  end,  and  went  up  it 
again,  in  the  reverse  direction. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Savigny,  as  he  swept  his  hand  off  the 
book,  with  a  very  expressive  gesture. 

"  It  is  wrong." 

"  You  are  inaccurate." 

"  No — it  has  come  the  same  twice — if  that  eight  is  not  a 
five." 

"  That  eight  is  an  eight,"  said  vSavigny  grimly.  "  Well, 
I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  do  it  myself." 

"Why?"  said  Antoine.  He  looked  at  the  doctor  with 
slight  curiosity  as  he  plodded  down  the  figure  column. 
When  he  came  to  the  end,  Savigny  muttered  something, 
and  corrected  two  of  them. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  Antoine,  leaning  to  look  in  a  flash, 
before  he  shut  the  book. 

"  Go  and  get  your  coffee,"  said  Savigny. 

Antoine  availed  himself  promptly  of  the  permission.  He 
loved  coffee,  and  was  rarely  allowed  it.  A  slight  advantage 
of  his  doctor's  roof  was  that  he  w^as  permitted  to  eat  what 
he  liked  beneath  it.  Savigny 's  cook,  if  she  were  not  Mar- 
got's  equal  in  pure  genius,  was  an  able  person.  Her  con- 
fitures were  admirable  also;  and  he  had  already  noticed 
some  upon  the  tray.  At  home  he  could  never  eat  jam  with- 
out his  uncle  making  personal  remarks  all  the  time.  Here 
he  ate  it  with  a  spoon,  and  tore  his  bread  to  pieces  with  his 


128  SUCCESSION 

fingers,  and  was  really  comfortable.  Savigny  watched  him 
at  intervals,  and  presently  abandoned  his  books  and  came 
across. 

"Is  there  enough  milk?"  said  Antoine  rather  anxiously, 
as  he  looked  into  the  jug. 

"  No,"  the  doctor  grumbled,  pouring  it.  "  What  a  quan- 
tity you've  drunk." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  the  kitchen  ?  "  He  was  half-way  to  the 
door. 

"  No,"  said  Savigny,  with  astonishing  emphasis.  "  Come 
back,  do  you  hear  ?  And  keep  still  for  a  time,  if  you  know 
how." 

Antoine  returned  and  subsided  into  his  former  chair. 

"What  are  you  so  thirsty  for,  eh?  You've  come  no 
distance." 

"  I  think  working  makes  me  thirsty,  perhaps." 

"  Adding  a  few    figures  ?  " 

"  No — the  other  work."  He  nodded  carelessly  in  the 
direction  of  the  Avenue. 

There  was  a  pause.  "What  time  did  you  go  to  bed?" 
Savigny  probed  him  of  a  sudden. 

"  Before  twelve,"  stammered  Antoine. 

"  That's  why  you're  yawning  like  a  fish,  then.  Do  you 
call  that  enough  sleep  ?  " 

"  I — thought  it  was  enough.  I  slept  a  good  deal."  He 
looked  at  the  jam-pot. 

"  You  may  as  well  finish  it,"  said  Savigny.  "  It  can't 
make  you  more  sticky  than  you  are." 

Antoine  licked  one  finger  delicately,  and  looked  at  him 
sidelong.  He  did  not  look  particularly  unkind,  for  all  his 
rough  tones.  "  I  don't  want  any  more,"  he  said,  leaning 
back  and  stretching  his  arms.    "  Is  the  internat  full  now?  " 

"  Room  for  another,"  said  Savigny,  with  unnecessary 
expression.  "  Have  you  heard  of  a  candidate?  "  The  boy 
said  nothing  and  blushed  slightly.  His  pallor  showed  a 
blush  easily,  and  a  less  acute  eye  than  Savigny's  would 
have  marked  it.  "  Get  on,"  he  snapped.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter now  ?  " 


THE   TYRANT  129 

"  That  was  all  I  wanted  to  know — if  you  had  a  room." 

"  I  sha'n't  take  anyone  without  good  reasons."  The 
tyrant's  eye  was  piercing  him.    ''  And  plenty  of  them." 

"  I  know."  He  rested  his  head  on  his  hand.  "  Suppose 
you  want  very  much  to  drink,  and  always " 

"  To  drink?  What?  "  The  doctor's  manner  would  have 
seemed  brutal  to  an  outsider:  the  boy  was  hardly  moved. 
He  was  used  to  Savigny,  and  the  case  he  was  pondering  so 
troubled  his  mind  that  it  was  far  from  him  to  suspect  a 
misunderstanding.  "  Do  you  think  a  little  thirst  is  worth 
complaining  of?"  said  Savigny,  as  he  did  not  answer  at 
once. 

"  It  is  not  to  complain "     He  grew  confused,  then 

untwisted  his  thoughts  with  an  effort,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  I  had  better  not  talk  about  it,"  said  he.  "  I  think  I  am 
stupid.    You  will  know  yourself  soon,  perhaps." 

"Look  here,  my  boy,"  said  Savigny,  sitting  forward. 
"  You  used  to  be  straight,  and  fairly  clear-headed,  li  you 
are  getting  fanciful,  it  is  best  to  say  so.  What  did  you 
want  to  drink,  and  when  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  The  question,  and  its  hesitating  look,  sent  a  shock 
of  such  relief  through  Savigny,  as  to  astonish  himself.  He 
had  not  realised  till  that  instant  his  anxiety.  That  the  most 
sordid  craving  in  the  world  should  find  an  entrance  into 
the  family  of  his  old  friend,  should  attack  it  at  what  he 
knew  well  was  one  of  its  weakest  points — that  and  no  less 
had  been  his  dread.    He  rose  too. 

"  My  little  Antoine,"  he  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
do  not  often  do  as  much  as  that;  but  nor  do  I  often  get 
on  such  a  completely  wrong  tack.  I  have  been  trying  to 
bully  something  out  of  you  that  was  not  there.  Now  see; 
we  have  not  long.  I  will  give  you  five  minutes  to  talk 
about  this  other  person,  if  you  really  wish  to.  I  cannot 
give  you  more,  because  I  have  other  business." 
"With  me?" 
"  With  you." 


I30  SUCCESSION 

The  boy  lifted  his  eyes,  paling  visibly. 

"  That  then,"  he  murmured.  "  For  the  other,  it  is  fin- 
ished." 

"  Good."  Savigny  sat  down  again,  "  Now  then,"  he 
said,  taking  his  visitor  by  the  wrists.  "  Keep  your  head, 
because  I  want  all  there  is  of  it.  If  you  answer  really 
carefully  and  well,  I  will  let  you  off  with  the  second 
catechism  only.  If  you  correct  yourself  and  flounder 
about,  I  shall  go  on  to  the  last  one.  If  I  pass  you  in 
either,  you  shall  go  home  within  the  hour.  If  you  fail  in 
both "    The  tyrant  paused,  his  cutting  eyes  diverted. 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Antoine,  thinking  of  the  empty  room. 

Savigny  still  waited  a  minute  or  two,  holding  him.  The 
pulse  under  his  fingers  was  not  reassuring.  Nor  was  the 
expression  on  the  boy's  white  face,  though  he  was  looking 
steadily. 

"  Please  will  you  begin,"  he  said,  with  barely  controlled 
impatience. 

Savigny  began,  and  carried  him  through  the  raking  series 
of  questions  he  called  his  second,  or  private  catechism. 
They  were  all  delicate,  and  difficult  to  answer  from  at  least 
two  points  of  view.  But  Antoine  showed  no  shyness,  and 
no  hesitation  worth  the  name ;  though  he  never  failed  to 
leave  a  moment's  pause  after  the  question,  to  realise  it,  and 
choose  his  line  in  answer.  It  was  an  ordeal  truly,  and  of  the 
most  severe ;  for  Savigny's  art  lay  on  the  border-line  be- 
tween the  physical  and  spiritual  kingdoms.  It  was  a  con- 
tinuous effort  of  brain  for  both  of  them,  and  in  a  marvell- 
ously short  space  of  time  the  doctor  learnt  all  he  desired ; 
a  store  of  clean  facts,  and  fine  impressions.  At  the  end  he 
waited,  and  asked  another  question. 

"  Why  are  you  so  frightened  ?  " 

"  I  am  always  frightened,  here." 

"  Well,  listen :  I  pass  you,  with  high  marks.  Now  do 
things  look  better  ?  " 

"  Yes."  He  gave  one  sob,  and  brought  his  eyes  round  to 
Savigny's. 


THE   TYRANT  131 

"Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me,  on  your  own  account?" 

The  pause  that  followed  betrayed  much.  "  I  had  better 
tell  you,  yes." 

"  Ha !    Wait  a  little,  then.    There  is  no  hurry." 

"  I  feel  sick,"  said  the  boy  impatiently,  while  he  waited. 

"  That  is  nothing — it  will  pass.  It  is  the  misfortune  of 
our  both  being  busy  people,  that  I  have  to  disturb  your 
nerves  so  early  in  the  day." 

"  Yes."  He  still  stood  a  moment,  frowning.  "  May  I  sit 
down  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  must."  He  sat  down,  and  leant  his  head  on  his 
hands.  Savigny's  harsh  looki  changed  instantly  to  such 
tenderness  and  trouble  that  it  seemed  a  pity  the  boy's  head 
was  turned  away  from  him.  After  a  period,  Antoine  lifted 
his  head,  folded  his  hands  on  the  table,  and  looking  away 
past  Savigny  with  the  same  slightly  distended  eyes — the 
look  of  fatigue  and  disgust  that  physical  discomfort  gives 
— spoke. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  very  good,"  was  how  he  began ;  and 
proceeded  to  explain  how  he  had  discovered  that  a  good 
many  people  in  the  w^orld  were  wicked,  and  in  new  ways. 
As  to  w^hat  ways,  he  produced  slight,  but  quite  sufficient 
evidence.  People  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  streets,  and 
much  better-dressed  people  had  said  things  in  his  pres- 
ence, in  good  houses.  He  supposed  that  was  how  this  new 
mental  and  physical  trouble — which  he  also  shaped  very 
clearly  in  his  short,  nervous  words — had  begun. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  tyrant  sharply,  "  You  have  told  your 
grandfather?  " 

No,  Antoine  had  not.  He  had  thought  of  him,  and  of 
Savigny,  and  of  confessing  in  church.  But  of  course  he 
was  not  in  that  church — yet ;  there  was  that,  and  his  father, 
to  be  thought  of.  He  stopped  here,  looking  wretched ;  and 
then  passed  with  an  effort  from  what  was  plainly  none  of  a 
doctor's  business.  So  it  came  to  his  grandfather — and  Sa- 
vigny. 

"And  you  decided  for  a  doctor.    Why?" 


132  SUCCESSION 

Because  doctors  knew  a  great  many  people ;  and  his 
grandfather  knew  only  and  chiefly  him. 

"  Is  that  not  an  advantage,  in  such  a  case — to  know  you?  " 

That  seemed  almost  too  difificult  to  answer.  His  suffer- 
ings had  been  definite  lately — he  evidently  felt  it  approached 
more  to  Savigny's  department.  M.  Lemaure's  education 
inclined  him  to  consult  first-hand  authority.  He  did  not 
find  words  for  these  things,  but  Savigny  discovered  them, 
secretly  and  most  exquisitely  flattered  by  the  confidence. 

"  I  could  talk  to  grandpapa — when  I  know,"  Antoine  fin- 
ished, freeing  himself  from  the  toil  of  laboured  thought. 

"  Granted  there  is  anything  to  tell,"  said  Savigny.  His 
eyes  had  lightened  strangely,  though  his  voice  was  cold. 
He  was  evidently  hot  on  the  track  of  one  of  his  private  in- 
terests.    "  Go  on,  I  want  more  details,"  he  ordered. 

"  About — which  ?  "  The  boy's  two  fine  hands  clenched 
more  tightly  together. 

"  Take  the  dreams  first."  Antoine  sketched  the  form  of  a 
new  dream,  which  came  first  of  all  in  the  night,  when  he 
had  been  tired. 

"  Last  night,  eh  ?  " 

Yes.  Almost  as  soon  as  he  had  left  the  light  and  his 
grandfather's  side,  it  had  come.  It  had  been  short,  and 
clear,  and  hateful. 

"  Makes  you  afraid  of  sleeping,  hey?  " 

A  look — no  answer  at  all. 

"Whom  did  you  see  yesterday?"  demanded  Savigny; 
and  he  heard  about  the  Bertrands,  and  a  shadow  in  the 
street  by  the  Halles.  The  boy  did  not  name  Jacques,  but 
the  doctor  was  sure  on  good  evidence  that  they  had  met,  and 
privately  cursed  his  carelessness.  He  sat  noting  all  the 
evidence,  and  the  changes  in  his  face.  He  had  dropped  the 
sharp  manner,  which  was  merely  a  habit  to  a  man  much 
pressed  and  often  misunderstood,  and  was  quite  leisurely 
and  still. 

He  asked  if  the  sick  feeling  had  passed,  and  the  boy  said 
it  was  better. 


THE   TYRANT  133 

"  You  are  capable  then  of  telling  the  other  things — my 
own  ?  "  the  doctor  said.  Antoine  believed  he  was.  Where- 
upon Savigny  drew  him  into  the  chair,  within  the  grasp  of 
his  long  arm,  and  examined  him  with  the  greatest  care  and 
delicacy,  making  every  stage  of  the  confession  easier  by  his 
skilled  anticipation.  It  was  as  though  he  had  sworn  to 
himself  that  the  child  should  gain  by  his  courageous  instinct 
to  appeal  to  knowledge  rather  than  to  love.  Savigny  gave 
him  the  best  essence  of  his  knowledge,  some  of  the  truths 
for  which  he  had  given  his  life's  work,  in  language  as  ex- 
quisitely chosen  as  it  was  clear.  He  paid  the  boy's  under- 
standing the  compliment  of  leaving  nothing  unsaid ;  but  the 
saying,  had  he  realised  it,  touched  art.  And  possibly  by 
right  of  that  art  Antoine  understood  it. 

He  followed  with  little  effort,  and  wonderful  relief.  He 
grew  younger  under  Savigny's  eyes,  and  it  was  more  than 
recompense  to  him  to  see  the  unnatural  trouble  clear.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  torment  that  had  followed  him  for  weeks, 
during  that  soft  spring  weather,  had  been  nothing  in  reality  ; 
one  of  the  endless  nervous  miseries  that  track  such  tempera- 
ments through  life,  and  tease  them  often  to  their  death. 
The  doctor  had  been  convinced  of  that,  knowing  him,  from 
the  first.  But  to  make  all  safe,  having  set  his  mind  at  ease, 
he  examined  the  young  body  in  turn,  and  tested  rapidly  its 
principal  organs.  The  boy's  serious  submission  to  the  pro- 
ceeding touched  him  profoundly.  Even  his  fear  had  van- 
ished, in  the  reaction  from  the  last  terrible  eft'ort,  and  he 
was  simply  grave,  and  languid  to  the  verge  of  drowsiness. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Savigny's  proceedings,  in  this 
second  and  more  practical  part  of  the  demonstration,  might 
have  seemed  to  the  disrespectful  critic  a  trifle  perfunctory. 
It  might  be,  as  some  enemies  said  of  him,  that  he  had  a 
leaning  himself  to  the  spiritual  rather  than  the  physical  side 
of  his  functions.  He  exalted  mind,  and  the  use  of  mind  in 
the  least  things  of  life;  and  occasionally  the  claims  of  the 
body  escaped  him.  Antoine,  to  whom  bodily  pains  were 
quite  definite  and  most  abominable  things,  would  have  been 


134  SUCCESSION 

glad  o£  a  little  enlightenment  on  that  head  as  well.  But 
Savigny,  having  pulled  him  about  a  little,  and  asked  a  few 
more  sudden  questions,  seemed  to  get  tired  of  him  unex- 
pectedly and  turned  crabbed  again. 

"  That  is  all  right  ?  "  queried  Antoine,  in  a  tone  suggesting 
he  was  quite  ready  to  be  satisfied,  if  Savigny  pleased. 

"  That's  enough  for  to-day,"  returned  the  doctor. 

*'  It's  ten,"  observed  Antoine.    "  I  heard  St  Sulpice." 

"  You  had  no  business  to  hear  it,"  said  Savigny.  "  While 
I  am  engaged,  the  time  is  nothing." 

"  Oh  yes,"  murmured  the  patient,  reproved.  Ten  was 
Savigny 's  consulting  hour,  and  very  late  indeed  in  his  own 
morning — that  was  all  his  remark  had  suggested.  But 
there  sat  the  tyrant  immovable,  pondering,  with  his  chin  in 
his  fist,  condemning  Antoine's  manner  of  dressing  himself 
apparently.  The  boy  sought  any  possible  remarks  to  dis- 
tract his  eyes,  but  conversation  under  that  fixed  glare  did 
not  come  easily.  He  was  not  in  the  smallest  degree  awk^ 
ward  for  being  nervous,  Savigny  noted  among  other  things ; 
he  always  liked  to  watch  the  Lemaures  use  their  hands.  At 
least  three  distant  bells  had  warned  him  that  patients  in  the 
consulting-room  claimed  his  professional  attention,  before 
he  stirred. 

"  I  may  go?"  Antoine  asked  hastily,  at  that  sign  of  life. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  grumbled  Savigny.  "  I  don't  know  why 
you  are  always  in  such  a  hurry,  you  public  people.  You 
used  to  get  time  to  be  sociable,  now  and  then." 

"  If  you  come  to  see  grandpapa  up  there,  I  will,"  said 
Antoine. 

"  Needs  a  third  party,  doesn't  it  ?  "  said  Savigny.  "  That's 
what  I  expected.     Go  along." 

Antoine  put  a  hand  on  his  chair,  leaning  on  it  in  hesita- 
tion.   "  It  will  be  all  right  ?  "  he  hinted  again. 

"  You're  not  an  ideal  construction,"  said  Savigny,  "  but 
you'll  do." 

Antoine  considered  this  diagnosis :  it  sounded  disparaging. 


THE   TYRANT  135 

"  I  wish  I  knew  your  things,"  he  remarked,  swinging  him- 
self on  to  the  chair. 

"  No  doubt  you  do.  Be  content  with  your  own,  for  the 
present.    What  are  you  up  to  to-day,  tell  me  that." 

"  I  must  practise  that  concerto  of  Tschedin,"  said  Antoine, 
leaning  back  with  a  yawn.  "  I  expect  I  have  forgotten  it 
since  London."  His  eyes  were  fixed  past  Savigny,  on  the 
spring  sun  without.  Any  scientist  should  have  considered 
the  distension  of  those  eyes  excessive  and  their  dilation  un- 
reasonable. Savigny  merely  thought  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  his  mother's,  they  were  the  most  beautiful  he  had 
known. 

"  You  can  sit  down  to  practise  it,"  he  observed. 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  said  Antoine.  "  Pas  possible — any- 
where." He  turned  a  glint  in  the  doctor's  direction.  "  I 
often  find  it  funny,"  he  rapidly  remarked,  "  that  you  do 
not  know." 

"  I  know  as  much  as  I  need,"  said  Savigny.  "  Couldn't 
you  have  sat  down  '  anywhere  '  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes.    That  was  some  old  sonatas.    All  the  time." 

"  Why  didn't  you,  then  ? "  Savigny  grew  violent. 
"  You've  got  no " 

"  He  just  did  that  when  I  tried,"  said  Antoine,  interrupt- 
ing. He  crooked  a  finger,  with  a  dry  jerk  of  the  head  to 
somebody  unseen. 

"  Lucien's  got  no  sense."  Savigny  finished  his  violent 
observation.  "  Look  here :  was  it  Lucien  let  you  loose  on 
an  those  people?" 

"What  people?" 

*'  Drunkards  and  others." 

Antoine  blushed.  "  He  has  not  been  always  there,  of 
course,"  he  began  delicately. 

"  Well,  you  can  tell  him  he  should  be  there.  What's  he 
paid  for,  hey?  " 

"  He  is  not  paid,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  says,  perhaps  I 
shall  have  to  be  alone  in  the  autumn,  if  my  aunt  wants  him 


136  SUCCESSION 

then,  so  he  shows  me  all  those  things.  He  is  careful,  very," 
he  added,  blinking  in  the  sun. 

"  Careful,"  repeated  the  doctor,  in  a  growl.  "  Are  you 
sleepy,  boy  ?  "  he  snapped. 

"  My  head's  not  sleepy — only  my  eyes." 

"  And  your  mouth.     Keep  it  shut." 

The  boy  cut  short  a  yawn  to  laugh.  "  That  is  rude,  hein  ?  " 
he  said.  "  I  shall  be  better  awake  to-night,  perhaps.  Now 
I  must  really  go — psst !  "  He  swerved  nervously  and  started 
to  his  feet  as  a  servant  entered. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  servant  at  Savigny's  black 
look.  He  knew  Monsieur  was  engaged.  But  a  young  man 
had  come  for  him,  not  for  M.  Bronne,  and  absolutely  re- 
fused to  wait. 

"  He  can  go  to  the  devil,"  said  the  tyrant,  without  a 
glance  at  the  card,  "  and  I  will  come  in  five  minutes."  Then 
in  soliloquy,  as  the  servant  shut  the  door,  "  That  will  be  our 
friend  Jacques,  no  doubt.  He  is  well  up  to  his  time,  now, 
isn't  he  ?  "  He  laughed  as  Antoine,  who  had  turned  his 
back,  swung  round  upon  him. 

"You  knew?"  he  ejaculated,  his  colour  high. 

"  Don't  excite  yourself  now,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  guessed 
of  course  who  your  tipsy  protege  must  be.  I  intended  to 
have  him  yesterday — though  I  never  asked  your  precious 
assistance.  Have  you  been  doing  me  the  honour  to  recom- 
mend me,  Antoine  ?  "  Standing,  he  put  an  arm  about  the 
boy,  and  turned  his  face  forcibly. 

"  Perhaps — grandpapa  did." 

"  And  who  took  him  to  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  He  came,"  said  Antoine,  on  the  edge  of  tears.  "  Go  to 
him  now.    He  gets  angry  very  fast  if  he  has  to  wait." 

"  I  shall  tell  him  I  was  detained  by  the  most  accomplished 
violinist   of  my  acquaintance." 

"  You  will  not,"  snapped  Antoine.  "  He  can't  under- 
stand those  things  now — jokes." 

"  It's  not  a  joke.  I'm  to  be  serious,  am  I  ?  He  won't 
thank  me  if  I  am." 


THE    TYRANT  137 

"  N-not  too  serious.     Only  not  to  laugh,  because " 

He  broke  off  at  Savigny's  heartless  smile.  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu 
— I  expect  you  know  best." 

"  I  should  hope  I  did,  my  innocent.  I  don't  manage  char- 
acters like  that  with  the  gloves  on.  He'll  have  a  bad  time 
when  I  go — worse  than  yours." 

"  Not  worse !  "  the  boy  gasped.  For  an  instant  he  dropped 
his  head  in  his  two  hands  against  the  tyrant's  arm.  Then 
he  shivered  and  stood  straight  again.  "  I  have  not  cried," 
he  said,  pushing  from  the  doctor's  grasp.    "  Good-bye." 


CHAPTER  V 


Reuss  did  come  in  the  autumn,  sweeping  through  from 
Vienna  in  early  September  to  fetch  Antoine  as  he  had 
promised ;  but  many  things  happened  before  that,  and  one 
too  important  in  its  subsequent  results  to  be  disregarded. 

The  boy,  owing  to  a  new  honour  which  was,  to  say  the 
least,  ill-timed,  had  had  particularly  hard-working  holidays. 
Instead  of  resting  with  his  father  by  the  sea  in  Brittany, 
where  he  had  been  sunning  himself  in  great  enjoyment  after 
the  signal  successes  of  his  spring  season,  and  scribbling  at 
intervals  as  the  fancy  took  him,  or  the  family  claims  allowed, 
he  was  brought  back  to  Paris  in  early  July  by  a  turn  of 
Fate's  wheel  that  could  not  have  been  foreseen. 

This  occurrence  was,  shortly,  that  Dr  Moricz,  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  renowned  teachers  of  Europe,  having  ar- 
rived to  spend  the  summer  months  in  Paris,  sent  a  person- 
ally inscrilDed  summons  to  Antoine  to  join  him  there  without 
delay.  Moricz  had  been  of  old  his  uncle's  professor  for  a 
season,  and  had  already  sent  word  to  Lucien  that  he  would 
be  graciously  pleased  to  teach  the  last  of  the  Lemaures, 
though  Lucien  at  the  time  had  paid  small  attention  to  the 
message.  Antoine  himself  had  seen  the  terrifying  old  sor- 
cerer once  only,  after  one  of  his  afternoon  recitals,  when 
Moricz  had  hobbled  in  with  M.  Lemaure  to  have  a  look  at 
the  "  grandson,"  as  he  called  him.  He  had  said  little, 
only  glowering  at  him,  and  feeling  the  muscles  of  his  arm 
and  hand ;  and  the  boy,  though  a  little  put  out  and  puzzled 
by  his  behaviour,  had  been  too  busy  to  regard  him  much,  or 
138 


M  O  R I  C  Z  139 

lend  much  weight  to  the  incident.  Thus  the  curt  and  ex- 
tremely uncivil  summons  that  reached  him  at  St  Aviel 
towards  the  end  of  June,  disturbed  him  not  a  little. 

He  went  for  counsel  naturally  to  his  grandfather,  who 
had  been  at  a  given  historical  moment  the  sole  rival  of 
Moricz  as  exponent  of  his  art,  and  who  would  surely  have 
the  necessary  information.  M.  Lemaure,  however,  receiv- 
ing the  boy's  news  by  letter,  found  himself  perplexed  by  it, 
divided  between  prudence  and  exultation.  The  ofifer  could 
only  be  viewed  as  flattering,  a  piece  of  rough  but  royal  con- 
descension. He  sought  Moricz  at  once,  in  his  grand  hotel, 
and  had  a  personal  interview,  which  only  served  to  pique 
and  puzzle  him  anew.  Moricz  opened  by  informing  him 
sans  fa-Qon,  that  howsoever  he  might  flatter  himself,  his 
grandson  was  not  up  to  the  mark,  and  could  not  "  last." 

"  He  has  had  an  unusual  and  prompt  success,"  M.  Le- 
maure contended. 

Moricz  was  unmoved.  "  I  refer  to  performance,"  he 
said,  in  his  extraordinary  mixed  jargon.  "  You  prefer  to 
depend  on  personality.  Yes,  so  I  always  heard."  His  gleam- 
ing eyes  pierced  the  rival  musician.  "  A  bright  light  upon 
his  head,  eh,  eh  ?    It  is  so  pretty  to  be  young." 

He  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  better  method  to  prick 
the  artist's  pride.  M.  Lemaure  was  aware  instantly  that 
he  did  depend,  and  had  throughout  depended,  upon  An- 
toine's  personality,  if  not,  as  charged,  upon  his  youth. 

"  As  you  will,  it  will  be,  of  course,  since  this  subject  is 
inside  your  family,"  said  Moricz,  and  coughed  for  a  time ; 
but  his  eyes  kept  shifting  to  his  visitor's  face.  "  There  is 
Rudolf  Lemonski,  also  young,  who  is  a  pig  in  public.  A 
pig,  oh,  granted — but  I  finished  him  and  he  can  play.  His 
family  ruined  themselves  for  my  lessons,  but  they  do  not 
regret  it  now." 

"  It  has  been  our  aim  to  avoid  rivalry,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  You  have  avoided  it,"  blinked  Moricz.  "  The  boys  are 
not  rivals  in  my  sense — no,  no.  Your  child  is  clever,  I  do 
not  deny  it;  but  put  him  and  Rudolf  in  a  dark  room,  send 


I40  SUCCESSION 

the  judges  to  listen — yes,  go  yourself — and  I  will  let  you 
decide.  It  is  not  your  fault  completely  " — his  little  eyes 
gleamed  again — "  but  there  are  things  your  boy  cannot  do. 
I  could  write  a  passage  here  and  now  he  could  not  play. 
And  if  he  gets  no  better,  he  gets  worse.    It  is  up,  or  down." 

M.  Lemaure  pleaded  for  time.    "  The  child  must  rest." 

"  He  has  already  rested  too  much,"  retorted  the  sorcerer. 
"  Trust  me,  he  grows  spoiled,  and  limper  every  week.  For- 
tunately, he  is  young,  and  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  I  offer  my- 
self to  show  him  these,  the  inner  things,  in  the  summer,  when 
I  teach  best,  before  I  return  to  the  East,  where  I  shall  die. 
I  had  wished  for  no  other  pupils,  but  now  I  am  willing  to 
show.    Attend  then,  and  beware ;  for  I  do  not  offer  long." 

M.  Lemaure  rose  at  last.  "  My  grandson  is  not  strong," 
was  his  culminating  argument,  somewhat  uncertainly 
offered. 

"  I  will  cure  him,"  smiled  Moricz,  with  a  snake-like  dip 
of  his  head.  "  He  shall  be  treated  softly,  never  fear,  this 
little  one.  I  am  old,  rich,  tired,  Lemaure;  and  those  always 
love  to  be  at  ease." 

M.  Lemaure  took  a  tour,  before  he  left,  of  the  beautiful 
apartments,  full  of  treasures  and  mementoes.  He  was 
guided  by  a  quiet-footed  German  servant,  who  seemed  well 
used  to  his  office  as  showman.  Thereafter  he  went  home  to 
reflect ;  and  coming  to  no  conclusion  of  any  finality,  he 
travelled  in  the  hot  weather  down  to  St  Aviel  to  consult  his 
son.  For  Lucien  always  knew  his  own  mind  very  promptly, 
and  had  a  store  of  good  reasons  at  call ;  and  his  father  often 
used  him,  at  least  as  a  touchstone  to  evoke  his  own  true 
opinion. 

Lucien  was  naturally  injured  with  his  nephew  for  not 
having  consulted  him  in  the  first  place.  Urged  through 
this  to  the  subject  in  hand,  his  decision  was  immediate,  and 
so  forcibly  expressed  that  his  father  was  surprised ;  for  he 
had  thought  Lucien's  vanity  would  be  tickled  at  least  as 
much  as  his.  He  was  vigorously,  almost  violently,  in  favour 
of  rejecting  Moricz's  offer;  and  his  reason  was  not  that 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  141 

his  pupil  was  incapable  of  standing  the  test,  either  in 
physique  or  virtuosity,  but  that  Aloricz  himself  was  useless, 
and  even  harmful.  It  could  not  have  struck  his-  father, 
who  had  competed  with  the  man  at  his  zenith,  to  doubt  his 
capacity  to  teach ;  but  Lucien  was  not  given  to  scruples  in 
such  cases,  and  he  flung  contumely  upon  it.  His  father, 
still  disagreeing  with  his  reasons,  was  dragged  round  slowly 
to  his  point  of  view. 

"  His  methods  w-ere  never  anything  but  clap-trap,"  de- 
clared Lucien.  "  Certainly  he  never  paid  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  me.  It  is  true,"  he  added  hastily,  "  that  I  was 
twenty-five — too  old  in  his  eyes  to  matter  at  all." 

"  You  improved  under  him,  nevertheless,"  his  father  ob- 
served. "  And  what  you  repeated  of  the  lessons  on  your 
return  interested  both  me  and  Marcel.  You  were  more  en- 
thusiastic then  than  now,  my  son." 

Lucien  grunted.  "  I  had  caught  up  some  of  the  catch- 
words then,  most  probably.  There  were  always  plenty — 
he  was  a  perfect  centre  of  scandal.  His  temper  was  always 
bad,  and  he  indulged  it  deliberately." 

"  He  has  been  hopelessly  ill  for  years,"  said  M.  Le- 
maure.  "  One  must  make  allowances.  Being  a  bitterly 
hated  man,  he  is  bound  to  have  suffered  too.  As  teacher, 
I  must  admire  him,  for  he  has  produced  some  splendid 
artists.  Claude  Moult,  whom  you  never  heard,  was  his 
best  pupil.    And  Lemonski  you  know  yourself  is  good." 

Lucien  growled  a  criticism  of  Antoine's  rival ;  but  for  all 
that  Lemonski's  name  produced  a  silence. 

It  was  about  this  point  in  the  conversation  that  Antoine, 
himself,  who  had  listened  closely  to  all  the  opinions  given, 
skirmished  to  the  front;  declaring  that  the  letter  was  his, 
and  that  he  intended  to  accept  the  offer  it  contained.  It 
was  entirely  characteristic  of  him,  both  to  flout  his  master's 
spoken  advice,  and  to  penetrate  sheer  through  the  veil  of 
gentle  diplomacy  to  his  grandfather's  unspoken  desire. 
Ever  ready  both  for  argument  and  adventure,  he  took  up 
the  contest  where  M.  Lemaure  abandoned  it;  and  to  com- 


142  SUCCESSION 

plete  the  comedy  of  the  generations,  both  the  elders  instantly 
united  in  an  endeavour  to  turn  him  back. 

"  You  do  think  he  knows  some  things  ?  "  he  demanded  of 
the  older  man. 

"  He  is  a  person  of  ideas,"  said  his  grandfather,  with 
caution,  "  even  of  inspiration.  But  I  agree  with  your  uncle 
so  far  as  to  think  that  what  was  once  highly  original  in  his 
methods  is  verging  now  on  mania.  He  pretends  to  be 
more  than  mortal,  which  is  hardly  prudent  in  a  man  whom 
death  may  catch  at  any  moment." 

'*  He's  in  his  dotage,"  growled  Lucien.  "  Hardly  respon- 
sible for  his  actions,  still  less  for  his  words,  according  to 
Joseph."  He  alluded  to  a  former  pupil  of  his  own,  whose 
lively  reports  of  Moricz's  senility  he  had  been  quoting 
largely  during  the  interview.  He  quoted  some  now ;  but  the 
endeavour  to  terrorise  Antoine  was  more  useless  than  the 
effort  to  persuade.  He  was  sure,  increasingly  sure  by  M. 
Lemaure's  eyes,  while  he  listened,  that  his  own  sight  and 
knowledge  of  the  man  outweighed  Lucien's  third-hand  re- 
ports ;  and  that  he  believed  in  his  heart  the  risk  worth  tak- 
ing. 

"  Voyons,"  he  said,  with  a  bright  idea.  "  Will  you  teach 
me  here,  if  I  do  not  go  to  Moricz  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  shall  teach  nobody  before  September ; 
and  I  insist  on  Lucien's  resting,  even  more  than  you." 

"  I  have  rested,"  said  Antoine,  and  set  his  lips.  What 
he  wrote  to  Moricz  that  same  evening  did  not  emerge, 
though  his  grandfather  would  fain  have  seen  it,  for  An- 
toine's  epistles  were  often  curiosities  of  style.  Before  he 
actually  set  forth  on  his  adventure,  however,  the  boy  had 
a  serious  interview  with  his  father. 

That  is,  Antoine  was  serious.  James  was  inclined  on 
holiday  to  his  laziest  teasing  mood.  Personally,  wanting 
Antoine,  he  did  not  approve  of  the  plan;  but  the  author- 
ities, as  it  seemed,  were  not  going  to  stop  it,  and  he  found 
Antoine  would  not  be  chaffed  out  of  his  purpose.  He  was 
shown  Moricz's  letter,  which,  translated  out  of  its  scrawl, 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  143 

read  more  like  an  order  to  a  dog  than  an  invitation  to  the 
pubhc  favourite  his  son  now  actually  was, 

**  I  think  he  is  rather  mad,"  explained  Antoine.  "  But 
grandpapa  believes  he  knows  some  things,  and  so  I  want 
to  learn  them.  There  is  an  express  to  Paris  at  nine  to- 
morrow." 

"Really?"  said  Jem.     "What  then?" 

"  There  is  the  ticket  to  Paris,  and  the  lessons  " — he  reck- 
oned rapidly — "  about  a  guinea  each  time,  I  think.  And  I 
have  no  money  at  all,  papa." 

"  You  mean  you've  come  to  beg  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  ask  grandpapa,  do  you  see,  because  my 
uncle  does  not  want  me  to  go." 

"  Humph.  And  I'm  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  you, 
eh  ? " 

"  No,  no.  We  have  been  happy  here,  at  St  Aviel."  He 
clung  to  his  father's  arm,  looking  wistfully  at  the  sea.  "  But 
to-morrow,  I  go  to  IMoricz." 

"  What  an  obstinate  little  dog  you  are,"  said  Jem.  "  Why 
are  you  so  set  on  learning,  eh?  You  know  quite  enough, 
for  my  purposes." 

"  Your  purposes !    What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  showing  you  around,  and  making  a  good  thing  of 
you.     That's  all  they  ever  wanted  too,  I  imagined." 

"  No,"  said  Antoine,  with  decision,  "  I  think  grandpapa 
wants  it  to  be  good." 

"  Well,  isn't  it  good  ?  "  said  Jem,  who  liked  driving  An- 
toine into  corners,  and  seeing  what  came  of  it. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  be,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  glance,  "  the 
day  you  come  to  hear." 

James  found  the  corner  a  little  too  small  for  comfort. 
He  talked  intelligently  about  the  concerts,  and  quite  hoped 
that  Antoine  had  missed  the  fact  that  he  had  never  attended 
one  of  them.  Pie  explained  the  queer  fact  to  himself  more 
easily  than  to  other  people. 

"  Well  now,"  he  said,  "  as  to  business.  How  much  do 
you  want  ?  " 


144  SUCCESSION 

"Eight  hundred  francs."  suggested  Antoine. 

"  Pish !    Don't  you  wish  you  may  get  it  ?  " 

"Are  you  poor,  papa?" 

"  Beastly  poor,"  said  James,  to  whom  his  father-in-law 
had  transferred  several  thousand  francs  that  morning.  The 
situation  appealed  to  him.  They  sat  down  together  on  the 
sea-wall,  and  he  searched  his  pockets.  After  sufficient  teas- 
ing, he  gave  Antoine  enough  for  the  journey  and  ten  francs 
over.  "  You  can  give  the  old  fellow  that  from  me,"  he 
said,  "  and  tell  him  he  ought  to  be  only  too  glad  to  get  you 
at  all." 

"  My  uncle  says,  if  I  talk  like  that,"  said  Antoine,  "  he 
will  do  things  to  me." 

"What  things?" 

"  Oh,  like  mad  people  do.  He  can  be  awful,  Rudolf  Le- 
monski  says.  Rudolf  used  to  cry  every  lesson,  and  he  plays 
very  well,  because  I  have  heard  him." 

"Did  you  tell  your  grandfather  that?"  said  Jem. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Antoine ;  "  because  it  was  a  secret. 
Rudolf  said  his  papa  would  kill  him  if  I  told  anybody." 

"And  now  you  have,"  said  Jem.     "Or  don't  I  count?" 

"  I  meant  in  music,"  said  Antoine,  unabashed.  "  In  talk- 
ing, I  shall  have  to  be  rather  careful  with  Moricz,"  he 
added,  watching  the  sea. 

"  My  dear  kid ! — you'd  best  keep  out  of  it,  if  caution's 
the  word." 

Antoine  was  pensive.  "  He  is  very  old,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  am  extremely  afraid  of  him.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  talk 
much." 

He  got  his  money  finally,  in  generous  measure,  and  next 
day  he  went,  pale  but  determined.  The  three  he  left  looked 
at  one  another,  each  annoyed  secretly  with  another  for  not 
preventing  it.  The  boy's  will  in  full  tide  had  a  force  they 
would  barely  admit. 

"  You  will  come  soon  ?  "  Antoine  murmured  at  part- 
ing from  his  grandfather. 


]\I  O  R  I  C  Z  145 

"  After  the  fete,"  he  answered.  "  Be  wise,  my  dear 
child." 

When  he  returned  to  Paris,  delayed  some  days  later 
than  he  intended,  Antoine  was  practically  living  with  the 
ogre  at  his  grand  hotel  by  the  river,  and  had  quite  a  new 
line  in  his  forehead.  Margot  was  in  despair,  because  he 
stayed  out  to  meals,  or,  as  she  suspected,  missed  them. 
Certainly,  after  the  interval,  his  grandfather  found  him 
thinner  and  changed.  He  practised  at  home  very  little, 
it  appeared,  except  the  first  hour  of  the  morning ;  and  often 
left  the  violin  in  Moricz's  charge — a  signal  mark  of  con- 
fidence, for  Antoine. 

"  What  does  he  say  to  you  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure,  on  the 
evening  of  the  first  day.     Antoine  shrugged. 

"  Every  time  another  thing.  Of  course,  I  can't  do  it 
right." 

"What?" 

"  Nothing — not  a  scale.  I  see  what  he  means,  some- 
times ;  but  I  can't  do  it.    I  think  I  am  not  strong  enough." 

"  How  long  does  he  teach  you  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  for  hours — sometimes  for  five  minutes,  and 
locks  me  in  to  practise." 

"Imprisonment.     Has  he  beaten  you,  darling?" 

"  No ;   but  he  says  some  dreadful  things." 

"  Tell  me  what  he  says." 

"  No ;  I  can't.  It  is  ugly.  The  French  he  knows  is  all 
that  kind." 

At  this  point  the  boy  cried  a  little,  as  though  he  had  to 
for  relief,  and  then  shook  the  tears  off  with  impatience  the 
instant  afterward.  "  It  is  stupid  to  mind  words,"  he  said. 
"  It  doesn't  matter,  really,  when  what  he  shows  me  is  good. 
Sometimes  it  is  all  good :  I  know,  though  I  can't  do  it  when 
he  looks  at  me." 

"You  are  content  then,  on  the  whole?"  His  guardian 
was  still  curious. 

"  I  shall  be,"  said  Antoine,  "  when  I  get  the  certificate. 
I  shall  get  it  for  you,  hein?    You  will  see  in  the  autumn 


146  SUCCESSION 

what  we  have  done.  First  I  will  practise  his  things  a  lot, 
then  you  will  see." 

"  Perhaps,  when  he  abuses  you,  he  is  ill,"  was  the  next 
suggestion. 

"  Yes."  Antoine  seemed  struck.  "  He  has  been  ill  some 
days  when  I  have  been  there.  Then  the  servant  comes  to 
him,  and  says  I  had  better  go  away." 

"  Ah,  but  I  remember  the  servant.    Capable,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  and  set  his  lips,  "  Moricz  is  very 
quiet  with  Ensbach." 

M.  Lemaure,  who  was  considering  the  question  of  the 
master  only,  did  not  see  the  line  deepen  in  his  grandson's 
brow,  and  all  his  face  take  on  again  the  mask  of  strain. 
With  Moricz  alone,  Antoine's  intercourse  would  have  been 
clear  enough,  as  between  a  skilled  master  and  a  clever 
pupil  it  should  be.  But  for  all  that  a  new  and  teasing 
problem  had  shaped  itself  under  the  rich  old  sorcerer's  roof, 
though  Antoine,  as  daily  visitor,  had  done  his  best  to  look 
away.  It  was,  in  some  sort,  the  sequel  to  that  problem  of 
age  that  he  had  studied  with  such  pain  that  spring;  but  it 
was  an  ugly  sequel,  not  at  all  as  he  would  have  invented  it, 
for  here  the  valet  Ensbach  took  a  hand.  Antoine,  whose 
dearest  friends  were  among  the  ranks  of  chauffeurs,  rail- 
way employees  and  hotel  servants,  had  disliked  this  quiet 
German  furiously  on  sight,  and  could  not  recover  from  his 
repulsion.  Being  incapable  naturally  of  concealing  his 
sentiments,  the  enmity  between  them  had  grown ;  and 
though  daily  let  in  and  out  by  Ensbach  with  perfect 
decorum,  he  felt  the  man's  sneering  eye  upon  him  even 
after  he  had  left  the  house. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  shorten  it,  my  dear,"  said  his 
counsellor  at  last.  "  Moricz  is  too  old,  and  you  waste  your 
strength  trying  to  follow  him,  do  you  not  ?  Ce  n'est  pas  la 
peine,"  he  added,  smiling. 

"  Si,  c'est  la  peine,"  the  boy  declared,  with  impatience. 
"  I  tell  you  I  must  finish  now.  Yesterday  he  told  me  it  was 
very  well.    I  could  have  finished,  but  he  spoilt  it." 


^1  O  R I  C  Z  147 

"  How  did  he  spoil?  " 

"  He  knocked  me  there."  He  touched  the  back  of  his 
right  hand.  "  And  the  bow  flew  straight  into  .tlie  corner, 
because  it  made  my  fingers  stiff." 

M.  Lemaure  exclaimed.    "  And  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  was  angry,"  said  the  boy,  his  eyes  flashing.  "  I  think 
Moricz  was  afraid  for  a  minute,  when  he  thought  the  bow 
was  spoilt.  He  pretended  he  had  not  meant  to  touch  me, 
and  went  to  pick  it  up." 

"  Thy  training  in  revolt  assists  thee,"  the  old  man  re- 
flected, half  amused.  "  What  would  Lucien  say  to  that,  I 
wonder?    Does  he  abuse  thy  master?"  he  said  aloud. 

"  Oh  yes — and  you.  The  old  gander,  he  calls  you,  the 
days  he  talks  German.  I  think  he  thinks  I  don't  under- 
stand German,"  said  Antoine.  "  But  if  he  thought  I  did, 
he  wouldn't  mind." 

"Did  you  mention  I  had  returned?"  said  M.  Lemaure 
the  following  day. 

"  Yes ;  I  told  him.  He  said,  had  I  complained  of  him  to 
you ;  and  I  said  yes,  I  had.  He  laughed  at  that,  and  while 
I  played  the  concerto  he  wrote  a  letter  for  you.  Here  it 
is." 

He  held  out  a  shabby  scrawl,  almost  unreadable.  It  was 
in  villainous  German,  and  it  alluded  to  Antoine  throughout 
by  a  neuter  pronoun. 

"  The  little  gosling  is  not  bad,"  it  ran,  "  but  too  soft. 
He  has  not  even  Lucien's  conceit  to  stiffen  him.  Conceit  is 
a  good  handle,  failing  others.  Being  already  so  elusive,  it 
is  not  my  wish  that  you  should  cosset  and  distract  him  be- 
tween my  lessons.  To-morrow  he  comes  to  me  at  midday. 
You  will  send  things  after  him  for  a  week.  Thus,  having 
him  at  hand,  I  may  be  able  to  finish.  As  you  value  the  im- 
mortal song  to  which  the  few  may  listen,  you  will  tell  him 
no  word  of  this  before  he  leaves  you." 

M.  Lemaure  pondered  over  this,  especially  the  exalted 
phrasing  of  the  finish.     He  was  very  silent  that  evening, 


148  SUCCESSION 

for  he  was  perplexed  by  doubts.  Antoine  also  was  almost 
too  tired  to  talk,  and  seemed  to  have  plenty  to  consider. 
He  was  growing  rapidly  older,  M.  Lemaure  reflected  sadly, 
as  '-  -  chafed  the  beautiful  arm  and  hand  that  lay  across  his 
knee.  Moricz  had  put  him  through  some  elaborate 
manoeuvres  in  the  morning  that  had  cramped  him,  and  his 
grandfather  had  noticed  that  he  struck  this  left  forearm 
angrily  at  moments,  as  though  he  still  felt  the  effect.  So 
after  dinner,  when  he  came  according  to  habit  to  read  on 
a  stool  by  the  sofa,  M.  Lemaure  took  upon  himself  to  slip 
that  arm  out  of  the  coat,  run  the  sleeve  up  to  the  shoulder, 
and  attend  to  the  little  strain  in  his  own  way.  Antoine  let 
him  do  as  he  would  without  protest,  only  glancing  round 
from  his  book  with  an  absent  frown  when  the  masseur 
hurt  him.  M.  Lemaure  did  not  read  himself,  giving  his 
whole  mind  to  what  he  was  about,  with  a  muttered  solilo- 
quy from  time  to  time  on  the  new  development  his  trained 
eye  found. 

"It  is  just  there  it  hurts  you,  eh?"  he  said,  having 
tracked  the  damage  down.  "  I  think  it  is  partly  this  bruise 
higher  up  the  muscle.    Did  thy  tyrant  do  that  as  well  ?  " 

Antoine  shook  his  head.  He  had  laid  it  back  on  the 
couch  beside  his  grandfather,  for  the  gentle  friction  was 
soothing.  "  I  did  it  against  the  piano,"  he  said,  "  when  he 
came  at  me  once.  He  called  me  three  names,"  he  added 
pensively. 

"  It  was  a  bad  day  to-day,  then  ?  " 

"  No.  Except  that,  it  was  all  interesting.  And  when  he 
had  finished  he  showed  me  photographs  of  all  the  people 
he  had  taught — oh,  hundreds — and  all  his  names  for  them. 
It  was  amusing." 

"What  did  he  call  Lemonski?"  said  M.  Lemaure,  with 
a  sly  glance, 

"  Pig,"  said  Antoine.     "  Rudolf  is  rather  like  one." 

"Was  there  none  he  approved  of  the  hundreds?" 

"  There  was  one — Claude  Moult — who,  he  said,  played 
like  all  the  devils  let  loose.     I  think  he  liked  him — loved 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  149 

him,"  the  boy  corrected  himself.  "  I  asked  what  happened 
to  him,  and  Aloricz  said  he  killed  himself." 

"  Did  he  also  say  he  married  his  daughter?  " 

"  No."  The  boy  moved  his  head.  "  Where  is  the 
daughter,  then  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say.  She  was  a  worthless  woman.  They 
said  it  was  her  behaviour  drove  Moult  to  his  end." 

"  She — they — did  not  have  a  child  ?  " 

"  No,  dearest.     Moricz  is  less  fortunate  than  I." 

Antoine  did  not  smile.  "  No  children,"  he  murmured. 
"  All  his  pupils  hate  him.  Nobody  at  all — and  he  knows 
a  lot  of  things." 

"Thou  growest  to  admire  him  more,  eh?  Thou  wilt 
quite  despise  our  lifeless  teaching  after  this." 

Still  no  smile.  Antoine  was  trying  to  find  any  resource 
for  Moricz — except  Ensbach.  It  seemed  a  fatal  thing.  As 
he  rose  to  say  good-night  he  murmured,  fastening  his  cufif 
with  a  frown :  "  It  is  a  pity  to  have  nobody,  isn't  it  ?  "  His 
grandfather  agreed,  catching  him  close  on  the  words.  He 
did  not  at  all  want  his  own  child  reft  from  him  for  a  week, 
and  he  felt  that  he  failed  the  mute  bargain  of  their  friend- 
ship in  not  warning  him  at  least.  Yet  Moricz,  though  tot- 
tering, was  a  prominent  figure  still  in  European  art,  and  he 
felt  through  all  his  eccentricities  the  flattery  of  his  genuine 
interest.  That  was  a  thing  he  could  not  but  regard.  He 
could  by  no  means  resist  the  temptation  to  let  his  pupil  tri- 
umph, now  his  ambition  was  fired.  For  the  boy's  own  sake, 
his  career's,  his  family's,  it  seemed  necessary ;  and  even  a 
little  for  old  Moricz,  whose  child  had  turned  against  him. 

The  boy  himself  was  quickly  aware  of  some  unusual 
emotion,  but  he  was  too  tired  to  be  curious. 

"  You  have  made  my  arm  feel  nice,"  he  said,  feeling 
something  required  of  him ;  and  drawing  away  from  the 
clasp,  he  went  to  bed. 

He  penetrated  the  full  significance  of  his  grandfather's 
manner  the  following  day,  when  Moricz,  at  the  close  of  the 
lesson,  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  a  prisoner. 


I50  SUCCESSION 

"  You  seemed  to  me  a  little  slow,"  he  said,  with  his  snake- 
like dip  and  smile,  "  so  I  thought  seven  days  together  in  myj 
apartments  might  give  you  leisure  to  understand  the  simple] 
things  I  say." 

"  I  am  going  home,"  said  Antoine,  seizing  the  violin,  andj 
gathering  himself  to  combat. 

"  This  will  be  your  room,"  said  the  old  sorcerer,  disre- 
garding him.  "  Or  another,  if  you  like  it.  My  man  will 
arrange  your  things," 

"  I  have  no  things,"  said  Antoine, 

"  They  are  sending  them,"  said  Moricz. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  Antoine,  flushing  high.  "  It  is  not 
true." 

"  Softly,"  laughed  Moricz,  who  relished  his  vivacity,  since 
that  was  a  first  necessity  of  the  trade  equipment.  "  Of  my 
truth,  the  eyes  can  judge." 

"  Grandpapa  knows  ?  "     He  could  not  believe  it. 

"  He  knows  the  fact  of  my  retaining  you.  As  to  details, 
I  must  decide," 

"  You  mean  I  cannot  go  there  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  week,  I  said.  Are  you  deaf  this  morning, 
little  one,  as  well  as  stupid?  A  week  should  suffice  us. 
You  will  promise  me  to  have  no  communication  with  out- 
side, and  I  promise  you  to  complete  our  work,  A  bar- 
gain, hey  ?  "  He  cackled,  seeming  greatly  pleased  with  this 
ingenious  plot  for  his  pupil's  good. 

"  Can  I  not  go  out?"  said  the  boy,  after  a  pause.  One 
eyebrow  was  comically  raised — for  the  affair  had  its  amus- 
ing side, 

"  You  may  go  out  on  the  balcony.  It  has  an  interesting 
view  upon  the  court.  Except  dinner,"  added  Moricz,  "  at 
which  I  desire  your  company,  you  will  have  your  meals  in 
here.     Ensbach  will  wait  on  you." 

Antoine  bit  his  lip,  "  Do  not  send  that  man  to  me,"  he 
said,  in  quick  entreaty,  "  I  don't  like  him,  I  will  come  to 
you  for  the  meals." 

Moricz  cackled  a  laugh  and  tweaked  his  ear.    "  Be  care- 


M  O  R I  C  Z  151 

ful,  hey?  "  he  said,  suddenly  rather  serious.  "  I  enjoy  that 
spirit,  but  all  do  not.  You  will  find  Ensbach  very  atten- 
tive— I  have  trained  him  for  my  work;  but  he  is  not  used 
to  pertness." 

That  was  the  first  hint  Antoine  had  of  the  inner  working 
of  the  sorcerer's  household.  As  the  days  passed  it  be- 
came clearer  yet.  He  felt,  sensitive  as  he  was,  ensnared 
himself  in  the  trap  that  was  closing  round  the  aged  man. 
Yet  he  could  complain  of  nothing  definite,  for  he  was  well 
treated,  allowed  the  run  of  Moricz's  splendid  musical  libra- 
ry, and  daily  examination  of  his  treasures;  and  he  was 
taught  with  concentration  for  three  hours  of  every  day. 
The  food  he  was  given  was  most  dainty  and  plentiful,  and 
the  valet  who  was  certainly  accomplished,  if  scornful  of  his 
presence,  served  him  delicately. 

The  third  day  he  saw  Ensbach's  other  incarnation,  for 
Moricz  was  in  bed.  The  man,  coming  upon  Antoine  at 
lunch-time,  found  the  food  untouched,  and  the  boy  leaning 
at  the  window. 

"  Alonsieur  is  ill,"  Ensbach  suggested  softly,  Antoine 
hated  this  manner,  having  seen  him  rough  with  the  old 
man. 

"  No,"  he  said,  without  turning.  "  I  want  to  go  out.  Tell 
Herr  Moricz  that  I  must,  my  head  is  too  full  of  things. 
I  will  not  run  away." 

The  valet  left  him  and  went  to  Moricz,  whom  he  had  in 
charge. 

"  Monsieur  the  little  goose  wishes  to  go  out,"  he  ob- 
served. 

"  That  name  is  not  for  you  to  use,"  the  sorcerer  retorted 
on  him,  quavering. 

"  Pardon — my  master  used  that  name  to  me." 

"  I  was  wrong.  He  is  clever,  the  boy,  and  may  go  far. 
We  must  be  careful." 

"  Monsieur  Edgell  intends  to  go  out,"  said  Ensbach 
blandly.  "  He  is  insolent  as  to  my  master's  orders,  as 
usual." 


152  SUCCESSION 

"  Why  cannot  he  be  content  ?  "  the  sick  man  complained. 

"  He  thinks  he  will  be  ill,"  said  Ensbach. 

"  Ha — no,  he  must  not  be  that."  Moricz  blinked.  "  He 
had  better  go  for  a  time,  and  come  back  to  dinner.  Per- 
haps I  shall  be  rested  then." 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  him,"  said  Ensbach  slowly.  "  But 
I  cannot  leave  my  master  to-day  for  long.  An  hour  will 
be  sufficient." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  muttered  Moricz,  fingering  the  sheets,  "  He 
must  not  leave  his  work  for  long.  Tell  him  it  approaches, 
Ensbach,  and  he  will  understand." 

The  valet  took  a  general  view  of  him  before  he  left.  "  I 
think  it  approaches  also,"  he  thought,  as  he  shut  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  may  walk  for  an  hour,"  he  informed  Antoine, 
with  a  smile.    "  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  accompany  him." 

"No!"  jerked  the  boy  hotly.  "I  do  not  need  you — I 
have  promised  to  come  back.    I  am  not  a  dog." 

"  Monsieur  must  not  be  so  difficult,"  said  Ensbach.  "  My 
master  is  ailing,  and  cannot  be  vexed.  Orders  had  better 
be  followed." 

"  I  will  go  to  him  now,"  cried  Antoine,  indignant  at  the 
insolence  barely  veiled.     The  man  only  laughed. 

"  No,  no,  liebchen,"  he  said.  "  It  is  decreed,  and  one 
must  submit.     Either  I  go,  or  you  do  not." 

Antoine  shrugged,  and  submitted  to  all  appearance ;  they 
started  out  together,  but  Ensbach  came  back  without  him 
in  half-an-hour.  The  man  was  fuming,  and  not  so  neat  as 
usual. 

"  He  is  clever,  as  my  master  said,  the  young  Herr,"  he 
told  Moricz.  "  He  gave  me  the  slip  at  the  crossing.  Er  ist 
weg." 

"  Fool !  "  hissed  Moricz.  "  He  is  of  value — his  face  is 
known.     He  has  been  kidnapped,  for  all  you  know." 

"  That  does  not  happen  here,"  said  Ensbach.  "  He  has 
gone  home,  as  he  intended.    Well,  we  are  done  with  him." 

"  He  will  return  to  me,"  the  old  man  contended  feebly. 
"  We  have  the  violin.  " 


MORICZ  153 

"  I  say  he  will  not,"  said  Ensbach.  "  And  it  is  better  so. 
Surely,"  he  added,  "  since  mcin  Herr  is  ill."  Moricz 
watched  him  as  he  moved  about  the  room,  and  fear  lay  in 
his  blinking  eyes. 

"  It  was  two  hours  we  said,  did  we  not  ? "  he  asked, 
when  more  than  that  period  had  sped. 

"  My  master  said  one  hour,"  replied  Ensbach. 

"  If  he  comes  back  now  he  will  be  hungry,"  said  Moricz. 
"  Listen,  you  are  to  take  his  supper  in :  and  warm  the  room, 
in  case  he  feels  the  cold.  He  cannot  work  if  he  is  cold. 
He  must  play  to  me  to-morrow — I  am  tired  to-night.  If  I 
cannot  rise,  he  must  come  here  to  play.  Ensbach,  you 
hear?" 

Ensbach  found  it  impossible  to  hear  him,  as  he  was  mak^ 
ing  a  clatter  with  the  blinds.  "  He  will  adopt  him  yet,  the 
old  dotard,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  as  he  wrestled 
furiously  with  a  cord.  "  If  I  had  had  the  sense  to  give  the 
cub  his  fiddle  to-night,  and  send  him  about  his  business !  " 

The  exultation  which  in  private  the  aged  teacher  could 
not  always  contain,  on  the  subject  of  his  latest  pupil,  had 
served  to  produce  a  misapprehension  in  the  valet's  some- 
what limited  mind.  Ensbach  knew  nothing  of  artistic  pride, 
and  read  the  old  man's  increasing  interest  in  Antoine  as 
personal  affection.  He  had  judged  the  boy  at  first  a  little 
fool,  genius  or  none;  but  affairs  in  the  house  had  reached 
a  delicate  stage  where  he  did  not  want  an  eye  from  without, 
even  a  fool's,  on  his  proceedings.  He  and  his  old  master 
were  far  too  comfortable  for  that.  Indeed,  Ensbach's  com- 
fort for  life  was  in  question,  and  that  was  not  a  prospect 
to  be  lightly  risked. 

His  bland  face  was  not  agreeable  as  he  thought  of  An- 
toine, who  had  both  flouted  and  fooled  him  that  day  in  a 
manner  somewhat  disturbing  to  the  theory  of  his  silliness. 
Ensbach  hoped  greatly  he  would  not  return  ;  but  he  still 
kept  a  course  in  reserve,  if  he  were  rash  enough  to  do  so. 
He  had  been  admired  and  spoilt,  and  would  not  bear  hard- 
ship long.     He  would  ask  himself  to  be  taken  home,  if 


154  SUCCESSION 

he  were  not  attended  to  sufficiently.  As  a  first  step  to  this 
end,  Ensbach  intended  to  overlook  the  little  matter  of  his 
supper,  and  if  he  complained,  to  quiet  him  by  other  methods. 
Ensbach,  a  bully  born,  thought  he  could  manage  boys,  if 
left  to  himself ;  and  Moricz,  he  knew  by  experience,  should 
be  safe  for  forty-eight  hours.  The  valet  was  an  accom- 
plished liar  as  well ;  and  between  this  pair  of  hot-blooded 
artists,  old  and  young,  both  for  the  moment  in  his  power, 
he  foresaw  a  prospect  of  mediation  which  was  not  without 
its  amusement,  by  the  way. 

It  never  occurred  to  M.  Lemaure  in  his  solitude,  per- 
haps fortunately,  that  his  tacit  agreement  with  Moricz  for 
the  benefit  of  Antoine's  artistic  education,  included  his 
abandonment  for  two  days  at  least  to  the  mercy  of  an  ill- 
bred  man,  of  no  education  at  all  but  that  which  goes  to  the 
making  of  a  rogue.  He  had  seen  Ensbach,  and  noticed  him, 
only  in  his  public  incarnation  as  an  excellent  servant,  ruddy 
and  young-looking,  with  smooth  manners  and  singularly 
perfect  French.  His  exterior  was  entirely  in  his  favour, 
and  M.  Lemaure  had  even  been  reassured  to  think  that 
Antoine  would  profit  by  his  capable  surveillance  while  in 
contact  with  a  master  so  old  and  irascible  as  Moricz  was 
now  said  to  be.  Antoine  himself,  as  ever  in  a  case  which 
concerned  his  deepest  instincts,  had  betrayed  nothing  of 
his  feelings  towards  the  man,  and  his  grandfather  felt  at 
ease,  on  the  whole,  as  to  his  situation  and  condition.  It 
is  true,  during  the  early  part  of  the  lonely  week,  he  did 
suffer  from  an  occasional  attack  of  doubt ;  though,  being 
greatly  interested  in  a  monograph  he  was  preparing,  and 
the  acquirement  of  materials  for  the  purpose,  such  misgiv- 
ing could  attack  his  mind  in  the  intervals  only. 

The  first  person  to  occasion  a  bad  moment  was  Margot. 
She  had  naturally  to  be  informed  about  Moricz's  latest 
freak  on  the  day  of  the  boy's  departure.  She  heard  her 
master's  explanation  out  in  blank  surprise. 

"  Monsieur  has  let  Monsieur  Antoine  go  to  live  in  that 


MORICZ  155 

house,"  she  cried,  "  from  which  he  returned  every  night 
of  the  first  week  to  cry?  " 

"Ah?"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "He  did  not  tell  me  that: 
only  that  he  found  he  could  not  do  what  this  new  profes- 
sor required.  One's  vanity  was  piqued,  Margot,  probably. 
It  is  often  the  beginning  of  wisdom." 

"  Monsieur  knows  well  he  is  not  vain,"  said  the  woman 
warmly.  "  Monsieur  Lucien  has  often  made  him  cry,  as  a 
little  one,  but  never  because  he  failed  to  do  the  thing  he 
tried.  Alonsieur  Antoine  cries  when  he  is  frightened  and 
furious — voila  tout.  With  Monsieur  Lucien  when  he  is 
furious,"  she  added,  lower. 

]\I.  Lemaure  smiled  at  the  remark.  He  liked  to  be  freely 
treated. 

"  Dr  Moricz  is  startling,"  he  observed,  "  but  we  had 
warned  him  of  that.  He  is  stimulating  also,  for  I  noticed 
the  signs  in  his  pupil." 

"  Monsieur  thinks  Monsieur  Antoine  wants  stimulat- 
ing?" said  the  cook,^  with  a  very  odd  expression.  "That 
he  is  lazy,  hein?  " 

"  Not  precisely.  He  is  often  absent,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
"  especially  of  late.  It  is  very  natural  at  his  age,  in  a  world 
so  full  of  varied  interest;  but  we  cannot  afford  it — as  it 
seems."  He  looked  at  her  comically,  for  he  had  no  disdain 
at  all  for  her  advice.  "  We  must  go  briskly,"  he  said, 
using  the  common  tongue,  "  or  we  shall  be  run  over.  Once 
started,  there  is  no  escape." 

"  Monsieur  is  not  content,"  said  Margot,  greatly  puz- 
zled, "  when  the  newspapers  talk  of  him  ?  " 

"  There  are  degrees  even  in  newspaper  fame,"  said  her 
master  thoughtfully.  "  I  have  a  wish — I  may  be  wrong — • 
to  see  this  last  one  stand  on  something  firmer  than  paper." 

Margot  pondered  a  little,  still  puzzled,  though  watching 
him  with  deep  respect.  "  Monsieur  might  teach  Monsieur 
Antoine  here,"  she  suggested  softly.  "  Without  Monsieur 
Lucien,  hey  ?  " 


156  SUCCESSION 

He  laughed.  "  Exactly  what  Alonsieur  Antoine  himself 
proposed,"  he  said.    "  Only  I  greatly  fear  I  am  useless." 

"  Useless,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  come  to  that  conclusion.  He  is  too  like 
me,  au  fond.    It  is  unfortunate." 

"  Ah,  ah,"  said  Margot.  "  That  is  what  IMonsieur 
thinks."  She  took  it  in  slowly,  this  draught  of  novel  in- 
formation. 

"  It  is  an  amazing  and  distressing  fact,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
"  that,  as  professor,  the  nearest  relation  is  often  useless. 
See — I  taught  Lucien  and  Marcel,  did  I  not  ?  " 

"  Et  Mademoiselle  Henriette,"  said  Margot.  "  It  is  true, 
they  were  different  from  Monsieur."  She  sought  within 
herself,  Frenchwise,  words  for  the  difference  her  instinct 
saw.  Yet,  though  she  found  some  telling  phrases,  they 
failed  to  satisfy  her  completely.  Conversation,  with  Mon- 
sieur, had  to  retain  a  proper  level,  Alargot  imagined.  So 
she  changed  the  subject  regretfully  to  the  current  prices  of 
cheese. 

On  the  third  solitary  day,  Antoine  paid  them  a  flying  visit 
towards  dusk.  He  was  in  high  spirits,  owing  to  his  success- 
ful piece  of  truancy,  and  though  he  did  not  stay  long,  his 
grandfather  found  himself  reassured,  and  turned  peacefully 
to  his  writing  again.  The  boy  had  spoken  of  nothing  at  all 
but  his  work,  only  that  ]\I.  Lemaure  did  not  observe,  since 
the  work  was  his  own  interest  also.  Two  days  later,  again, 
he  had  new  slight  misgivings  over  a  letter  from  his  son. 
Lucien,  if  not  brilliant  in  argument,  was  at  least  tenacious. 
He  had  been  at  the  pains  to  write  instantly  on  his  defeat  to 
his  old  pupil  in  the  sorcerer's  native  town ;  and  summarised 
the  story  he  received  thence  incisively.  It  was  an  earnest 
letter,  and  if  his  father  had  not  known  Lucien  a  little  too 
well,  he  might  have  been  affected  by  his  warmth. 

"  Moricz,"  Lucien  wrote,  "  is  by  common  report  in  Pesth 
absolutely  under  the  thumb  of  a  vulgar  knave,  a  low-class 
German,  who  pretends  to  be  his  servant,  but  is  really  his 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  157 

master.  Moricz  is  said  to  have  promised  huge  sums  to  this 
person  under  seal,  having  long  disinherited  his  daughter. 
He  is  not  responsible  for  his  actions  at  times,  Joseph  says, 
though  his  mind  has  not  given  way  completely.  He  sees 
only  the  doctors  recommended  by  this  man,  who  also  sees 
the  interviewers,  and  invents  the  stories  without  which 
Moricz's  name  could  hardly  continue  to  exist  in  the  public 
mouth." 

"  Beautifully  put,''  thought  Lucien's  father,  "  only  it 
does  not  occur  to  him  that  this  might  be  invented  too.  The 
detail  is  thrilling,  certainly." 

M.  Lemaure  had  already  revolted  from  the  romantic  at- 
mosphere of  the  pupil's  story.  His  son,  he  felt  sure,  would 
have  done  so  as  well,  had  it  not  happened  to  support  his 
own  contention.     But  he  did  not  even  stop  there. 

"  The  fellow,  like  all  Moricz's  neighbourhood,  has  been 
through  ill-treatment  and  humiliation;  and  has  borne  it 
all  with  the  fixed  purpose  of  becoming  indispensable — 
which  he  has  done — and  triumphing  in  the  end.  He  flatters 
Moricz  constantly,  chooses  the  occasions  to  exhibit  him, 
and  uses  his  name  with  effect  to  gather  honour  and  advan- 
tage upon  their  travels.     He  must  be  an  incredible  rogue." 

"  Incredible,"  thought  the  Frenchman,  but  his  smile  faded 
as  he  read  on.  ^ 

"  If  it  is  still  your  wish,  father,  that  Antoine  should  visit 
daily  a  household  such  as  this,  I  say  no  more.  For  my  part, 
even  if  all  the  story  of  Moricz's  vast  genius  were  true,  all 
his  undoubted  reputation  honestly  earned,  I  could  not  sup- 
port so  great  a  risk.  I  need  not  inform  you  at  this  period 
how  sensitive  the  child  is,  and  how  the  worldly  horrors 
revolt  him.  If  it  is  simply  ambition  and  obstinacy  on  his 
part,  it  should  be  as  simply  overruled.  Alone  I  should  of 
course  have  overruled  him,  only  you  were  easy,  and  James, 
as  usual,  amused.  I  have  represented  the  whole  case  to 
Cecile  here,  and  she  agrees  with  me  completely.  As  she 
says "  The  daughter-in-law's  opinion,  founded  exclu- 
sively on  the  son's  report,  could  not  concern  the  reader  very 


158  SUCCESSION 

keenly,  though  in  other  ways  he  regarded  her.  He  put  the 
letter  aside,  and  though  he  let  the  scandal  drop  from  his 
serious  mind,  he  remained  a  little  impressed  by  Lucien's 
honest  disagreement  from  him.  It  had  not  occurred  often 
in  his  memory ;  and  it  surprised  him  on  this  subject. 

On  the  last  day  but  one  of  the  stated  week  he  received 
from  Moricz's  hotel  a  second  German  note,  considerably 
better  written  and  composed  than  the  former  one,  and  far 
more  courteous  in  tone.  A  secretary,  he  judged,  might 
have  written  it.  It  informed  him  in  Moricz's  name  that 
he  had  better  remove  the  boy,  who  was  naughty  and  useless. 

M.  Lemaure  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  prepared  to  follow 
instructions,  wondering  a  little  what  had  taken  place.  He 
arranged  his  papers  and  manuscripts,  informed  Margot 
that  he  should  bring  back  le  petit,  who  would  probably  be 
hungry,  and  drove  round  to  the  grand  hotel. 

"  It  is  you?  "  said  Moricz,  turning  at  his  rival's  entrance. 
He  was  completely  master  of  himself,  but  he  looked  very 
ill,  and  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  costly  furs  by  the 
fireside,  though  it  was  a  warm  summer  day.  He  looked 
fiercely  at  the  intruder,  and  without  offering  him  a  seat,  or 
even  rising  from  his  own,  seemed  to  be  waiting  an  explana- 
tion of  his  presence. 

M.  Lemaure,  allowing  for  age  and  illness,  explained  it; 
and  waited  in  turn,  for  IMoricz,  watching  him  with  his 
head  lowered,  had  no  answer  at  once. 

"  Well,  take  him,"  he  said,  after  the  interval.  "  As  you 
will." 

"He  has  been  troublesome?" 

"  Obstinate — it  exhausts  me.  There  are  nothing  but 
quarrels  here  since  he  came.  I  am  old,  and  inclined  for 
peace." 

"  Do  you  give  him  the  certificate?  "  said  his  visitor. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?     He  has  not  asked  for  it." 

"Has  he  paid  you?"  said  M.  Lemaure,  sitting  down. 


M  O  R I  C  Z  159 

since  he  was  not  asked  to  do  so.  ]\Toricz  looked  blacker 
still,  lowering  his  snake-like  head. 

"  That  is  between  us,"  he  said.  "  We  finished  that  this 
morning." 

"Since  when  he  has  been  useless,  perhaps?"  No  re- 
sponse. "  Has  he  thanked  you  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure  more 
gravely. 

"  No,  nor  will,"  said  the  great  teacher.  "  His  thanks  are 
to  be  hard  ones — yes,  I  know  the  kind.  I  tell  you  " — his  ex- 
citement rose — "  all  my  life  I  have  not  thought  of  money. 
How  could  I  think?" 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  the  other.  "  I  have  heard  it  always, 
Moricz." 

Something  in  the  shattered  artist's  look,  for  the  minute, 
moved  him  greatly.  He  was  as  sensitive  to  impressions  as 
his  grandson,  though  this  he  could  not  explain. 

"  You  believe  it,  eh?  "  said  Moricz.  "  Who  was  it  taught 
that  boy,  at  that  age,  to  ofifer  money  like  an  insult  ?  It  must 
surely  have  been  you." 

"  That  is  what  my  grandson  did  ?  I  can  but  fear  you  have 
oflFended  him,  if  he  will  not  take  your  teaching  as  a  gift 
when  offered." 

"  I  have  not  offended  him,"  said  Aloricz,  his  fingers  work- 
ing slowly  on  the  mantle's  edge.  "  Not  of  intention."  His 
eyes  wandered  about  the  room  and  never  reached  the  vis- 
itor. "  He  is  bold  in  speech,  that  boy ;  but  boldness  is  a 
quality  I  regard,  if  it  shoot  straight  to  the  true  mark.  My 
own  speech  is  bitter,  yes.  I  can  learn  no  other  now.  But 
there  are  few — I  tell  you  few — I  have  not  treated  worse." 

"  He  is  worth  teaching,  then?  " 

"  In  that  I  chose  him,  he  is  worth  it,"  said  the  old  mas- 
ter, a  relic  of  the  grand  manner  hovering  about  the  words. 

In  what  I  gain — but  none  are  ever  worth !  " 

"  Will  you  not  give  him  the  prize,  then  ?  "  said  M.  Le- 
maure.    "Not  if  I  bid  him  thank  you,  and  make  peace?" 

"Your  bidding!  "  Moricz  jeered.  "  That  child's  thanks, 
evoked  by  you,  will  be  a  privilege.    There  is  a  thing  to  work 


i6o  SUCCESSION 

for,  hey  ?  Ah  " — he  clutched  the  mantle — "  what  it  is  to 
be  hated  by  all,  and  most  by  those  one  serves." 

"  You  have  served  us  both,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  approach- 
ing his  chair  and  speaking  clearly.  "  Magnificently,  I  doubt 
not.  And  I  esteem  your  generosity  if  Antoine  does  not. 
Only,  beyond  this  once  I  will  not  thank  you,  for  my  child 
is  good  to  teach." 

Moricz,  still  gazing  motionless,  said  nothing;  and  M. 
Lemaure  left  him  and  went  to  Antoine. 

"  Monsieur  wishes  to  know  Monsieur  Edgell's  room  ?  " 
said  Moricz's  well-trained  servant,  coming  to  his  side. 
"  Pardon,  Monsieur,  this  way." 

"  The  child  is  not  ill  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure  on  the  way. 

The  man  shrugged.  "Perhaps  frightened  a  little.  My 
master  abused  him — it  happens  sometimes  when  he  is  ex- 
cited. He  did  not  strike  Monsieur  Edgell,  because  I 
watched.  This  is  the  door,"  he  added,  advancing  to  intro- 
duce him. 

■"  I  thank  you,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  If  I  need  you,  I 
will  ring."  The  valet  bowed  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
room. 

Antoine  did  not  look  ill  at  all :  he  had  more  colour  than 
usual.  As  they  entered,  he  was  writing,  and  did  not  turn 
at  once. 

"  Ensbach,  there  are  some  notes  in  there — money,"  he 
said,  in  a  manner  formal  to  haughtiness,  such  as  his  grand- 
father had  never  known  him  use  to  a  domestic.  "  Perhaps 
you  found  where  I  left  it.  You  had  better  go  and  count  it 
soon,  or  perhaps  he  will  throw  it  in  the  fire." 

"  Monsieur  is  prudent,"  said  the  servant,  admiring. 
"  Here  is  Monsieur  his  grandfather,  who  requires  to  see 
him." 

Then  the  boy  moved,  started  almost,  and  stared.  It 
was  as  though,  like  Moricz,  he  was  completely  put  out  by 
the  apparition.    Ensbach,  smiling  faintly,  left  them  together. 

"  Thou  art  not  often  called  prudent,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
in  his  familiar  easy  tone,  advancing.     "  Indeed,   for  my- 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  i6i 

self,  I  should  call  the  proceeding  rash.  You  are  sure  the 
servant  can  be  trusted  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  boy,  with  impatience.  "  He  knows 
what  to  do."  He  made  no  movement  to  embrace  his  grand- 
father, only  a  stiff  little  sign  to  a  chair.  There  were  many 
in  the  room,  which  was  handsome  and  comfortably  fur- 
nished, though  darker  a  little  than  the  front  rooms,  since  it 
gave  upon  a  court. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  said  Antoine,  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion, for  it  struck  the  old  man  he  might  be  suffering.  "  I 
did  not  think  you  would  come."  It  then  occurred  to  M. 
Lemaure — what  in  the  intervening  period  he  had  forgotten 
— that  he  had  his  own  peace  to  make  as  well  as  Moricz's. 

"  I  am  docile  to  instruction,"  he  said,  as  lightly  as  he 
could.  "  I  was  bidden  by  your  teacher  to  let  you  be  at 
first,  and  now  I  am  bidden  to  fetch  you  home." 

"  Fetch  ?  "  said  Antoine,    "  Who  wrote  ?  " 

"  Moricz  himself."  At  the  boy's  gesture  he  put  the  note 
into  his  hand. 

"Psst!"  said  Antoine  to  himself,  crumpling  it  slowly. 
"  That  is  the  money.  He  w^as  afraid  he  would  give  it  back 
if  I  stayed.     Oh,  it  is  amusing." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  M.  Lemaure,  completely 
puzzled  by  his  new  manner :  cold,  mature,  stiff — everything 
that  Antoine  had  never  been  known  to  be. 

"  I  stay  till  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  with  indifference, 
setting  the  writing  things  straight  mechanically.  "  A  week, 
do  you  remember  ?  He  said  he  wrote  a  week  to  you,  and  I 
have  paid  for  that." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  strange !  "  He  could  not  avoid 
the  exclamation.  "  I  think  you  have  been  ungracious  over 
this.  See,  there  is  no  harm  in  letting  Moricz  present  his 
teaching,  if  he  wishes.     It  is  probably  a  compliment." 

"  I  don't  want  compliments,"  said  Antoine,  adding  with 
impatience:  "  It  is  finished — I  have  arranged  it.  You  will 
see,  he  will  not  say  any  more."  He  looked  up  for  the  first 
time,  and  it  seemed  to  his  grandfather  that  his  eves  had 


i62  SUCCESSION 

changed.  Their  expression  gave  him  exactly  that  little 
shock  that  an  animal's  may  do,  in  pain  or  distress. 

"  The  wretch  hurt  thee,"  he  said  instantly.  "  Bebe,  what 
did  Moricz  say." 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered  obstinately.  "  He  has  not  hurt 
me.     I  think  I  hurt  him.     I — forgot  he  was  old." 

M.  Lemaure  thought  of  the  old  man's  words  and  bitter 
look. 

"  Ah,  but  thou  shouldst  be  used  to  old  people,"  he  said, 
in  gentle  reproof.  There  was  no  reply  to  this.  "  Have  they 
fed  you  well  ?  "  he  proceeded,  watching  the  thin  fingers  that 
were  teasing  the  tray  of  silver  writing  implements. 

"  Yes,  Since  Sunday  I  have  had  all  my  meals  with  him." 
Antoine  did  not  add  that  he  had  practically  starved  the  two 
preceding  days. 

"  What  do  you  complain  of,  then  ?  " 

"  I  complain  ?  Have  I  complained  ?  "  He  laughed,  and 
pushed  the  tray  from  him.  "  Listen,"  he  said.  "  Moricz  is 
my  master,  you  have  said  it.  I  am  his  pupil,  in  this  house 
for  a  week.  Bon!  For  two  days  I  have  no  lessons.  I  do 
not  see  him  even.  He  talks  to  me  through  the  servant." 
Excitement  almost  conquered  his  voice.  "  I  cannot  prac- 
tise, or  read,  or  think,  because  of  him.  The  next  day,  Sun- 
day, I  go  to  him — malgre  Ensbach — and  he  is  very  well,  sit- 
ting there.  He  will  give  me  my  lesson,  oh  yes.  When  I 
play,  he  is  surprised  I  have  not  done  more  for  him.  I  had 
had  the  time.  .  .  ."  he  stopped  again.  "  I  let  him  be 
surprised,  provided  he  will  finish  now.  I  have  paid  for  all 
the  lessons,  the  days  before  Sunday  as  well,  and  I  will  have 
the  last  one.  Papa  would  not  like  it,"  he  added,  his  voice 
dropping  as  he  turned  aside.  "  He  would  have  said  to  do 
that,  I  believe." 

"  You  are  like  your  father."  The  Frenchman  made  the 
sudden  discovery.  "  You  are  English  a  little,  Antoine,  in 
this  matter.  Money-value  is  not  a  stable  thing.  Its  sig- 
nificance varies  greatly.  In  this  case  it  means  nothing,  since 
the  man  is  rich,  and  his  will  to  be  generous  proved." 


]M  O  R  I  C  Z  163 

Antoine  remained  immovable,  uncomprehending.  His 
whole  soul,  plainly,  English  or  not,  revolted  at  being  given 
,  what  he  had  learned  that  week.  Moricz's  pride,  at  least, 
had  met  its  match. 

"  It  is  my  money,  papa  said  so,"  was  his  final  remark,  as 
though  that  had  some  bearing.  "  I  am  learning  his  things," 
he  added  more  gently.  "  All  these  last  lessons,  it  has  been 
good." 

M.  Lemaure  left  him  finally,  and  went  home  to  explain, 
so  far  as  things  could  be  explained,  to  the  disappointed 
Margot. 

Antoine  came  home  the  next  day,  somewhat  later  than 
the  hour  he  had  said.  He  looked  better  and  more  natural, 
though  it  might  have  shown  to  a  keen  eye  as  the  serenity 
after  storm.  He  was,  in  fact,  simply  childish,  as  often  in 
weariness,  and  seemed  eager  to  turn  to  the  new,  and  put  the 
old  problems  behind  him. 

"  Did  you  thank  your  professor?  "  was  M.  Lemaure's  first 
question,  when  he  turned  from  his  work  at  the  boy's  en- 
trance. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  did,"  he  answered  seriously.  "  It  is  all  right. 
Yesterday — I  had  not  understood.  What  are  you  writing?  " 
He  flung  himself  on  the  manuscripts  that  lay  scattered  about 
the  study  table. 

"  Never  mind  that  for  the  moment.    Bebe !  I  am  curious." 

"Yes?"  said  Antoine,  his  eyes  deciphering  the  score. 

"  Did  Moricz  give  you  the  certificate  ?  " 

The  boy  patted  his  pockets  with  an  absent  hand,  and 
finally  drew  out  the  much-coveted  paper.  It  w^as  an  auto- 
graph testimonial  to  his  proficiency,  signed  in  full  by  the 
forcerer's  hand.  Antoine  displayed  it  with  the  same  al- 
most infantile  seriousness. 

"  You  see,  it  is  all  real  here  what  he  says,"  he  observed, 
his  fine  fingers  underlining  the  scrawl.  "  Not  mad  and 
stupid.    I  saw  him  write  it  at  his  table.    We  talked  about  it." 

"  The  quarrel  is  finished,  then." 


i64  SUCCESSION 

"  Yes,  yes ;  we  are  very  well  together."  He  frowned, 
swerving  a  little  from  the  hand  laid  upon  him. 

"  Did  he  embrace  you  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  when  I  thanked  him."  He  was  vague 
for  a  second,  his  hand  working  on  the  table-edge.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  diploma.  "  It  is  six  lines,"  he  concluded, 
"  and  Rudolf  Lemonski's  was  only  two." 

"  ]\Iagnificent,"  said  his  grandfather,  openly  amused  and 
secretly  gratified.    "  What  does  this  mean  at  the  end?  " 

"  Finis,"  said  Antoine.  "  It  means  '  la  fin ' — because  he 
will  not  take  pupils  any  more.  Perhaps  it  was  rather  mad  to 
put  that,"  he  admitted  lightly.  He  looked  his  testimonial 
over  with  a  kind  of  dubious  complacency,  as  though  it  was 
in  part  his  production.  M.  Lemaure  found  him,"  as  fre- 
quently, very  diverting,  and  grew  prepared  to  tease. 

"  Will  you  keep  it  ?  "  requested  Antoine,  thrusting  it  at 
him  suddenly.     "  Chez  moi,  that  little  thing  will  get  lost." 

"  Chez  toi  is  all  in  order,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  glancing  at 
the  cook,  who  had  insinuated  her  cheering  presence  upon 
the  scene.  "  This  friend  of  thine  can  account  for  every 
paper  there." 

Antoine  smiled  at  Margot,  though  absently. 

"  Please  keep  it,"  he  insisted.    "  You  will  be  very  kind." 

"  As  you  will,"  replied  his  grandfather,  "  but  it  was  your 
own  adventure." 

"  But  you  like  it,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  mean — that  will  be 
good?  " 

"  Oh,  absurdity.    Take  him  to  lunch,  Margot." 

"  You  have  not  read  it  really,"  said  Antoine,  snatching 
at  the  folded  sheet.    "  It  is  not  very  bad  writing — look." 

"  I  have  read,"  said  his  grandfather,  "  and  am  disap- 
pointed." 

"  How  disappointed?  " 

"  It  is  not  nearly  good  enough." 

"  Content  him,  Monsieur,"  murmured  Margot.  "  He  is 
tired,  pauvre  chou,  and  cannot  think." 

"  Doubtless  thy  master  feared  the  full  truth  would  of- 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  165 

fend,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  offering  a  hand,  for  he  still  would 
not  come  near.     "  That  is  the  worst  of  certificates." 

"  Oh,  did  he  tell  you  that?  "  returned  the  boy,  whose  eyes 
had  moved  to  the  manuscripts  again. 

"  Tell  me  what  ?  " 

"  I  mean — that  I  am  to  play  better  than  you." 

M.  Lemaure  struck  the  papers  on  the  table  and  made  him 
start.  ''  I  am  repaid,  Margot,"  he  said.  "  I  retire.  No,  my 
little  grandson,  he  did  not  tell  me.  I  beg  you  not  to  repeat 
such  nonsense.  I  would  sooner  have  the  diploma  as  it 
stands." 

"  I  will  not  tell  my  uncle,"  said  Antoine  hastily ;  and  then 
laughed  himself  with  sudden  and  rapturous  mischief,  throw- 
ing back  his  head.  He  had  re-discovered  the  easy  world, 
the  blessed  people  whose  ways  he  followed  without  pain. 
The  room  was  just  as  usual,  dimmed  and  worn  by  the  dig- 
nity of  age  and  use,  with  nothing  to  remind  him  of  the 
white  and  gold  ornament,  the  soft,  hot  atmosphere  of  a 
great  hotel.  Margot,  brown,  beaming  and  heavy-footed, 
had  nothing  at  all  of  Ensbach's  smile  and  gait.  His  grand- 
father, old  though  he  might  be,  was  not  Moricz,  that  mas- 
ter of  strange  secrets,  strange  deceptions,  and  stranger  for- 
get fulness  ;  and  there  were  several  new  manuscripts,  ac- 
(|uired,  no  doubt,  by  inordinate  extravagance  in  Lucien's 
absence,  to  which  to  devote  himself  in  the  evening  hours. 

The  master  of  the  house  observed  suddenly  after  lunch 
that  he  wished  to  be  embraced.  ''  I  have  had  no  greeting," 
lie  said,  "  to-day  or  yesterday.    Moricz  has  more  than  I." 

The  boy,  who  was  bent  over  a  manuscript  in  the  window, 
shrank,  stared  beyond  it  a  moment,  and  then  went  to  him 
without  a  word.  Ten  minutes  later  Margot,  entering, 
glanced  with  her  kind  squeezed  eyes  about  the  room. 

"  M.  Antoine  is  not  there  ?  "  she  said. 

"  He  is  here,"  said  her  master.  "  He  is  not  very  well,  I 
think,  Margot.    We  must  care  for  him  a  little."    Never,  in 


i66  SUCCESSION 

the  course  of  all  the  boy's  miseries  and  maladies,  had  she 
heard  him  speak  in  that  tone. 

*'  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a,  cheri  ?  "  said  Alargot,  bending  to  him. 
"  Voyons,  you  alarm  monsieur.    Look  up." 

He  was  in  a  paroxysm  of  perfectly  tearless  sobbing,  both 
hands  gripped  upon  his  grandfather's  chair,  in  a  furious 
effort  to  control  the  storm  that  shook  him  from  head  to  foot. 
They  had  known  such  crises  far  back  in  his  youth,  but  had 
seen  nothing  like  it  for  many  years.  It  was  certainly  alarm- 
ing to  witness,  but  there  was  nothing  for  the  family  to  do 
but  wait — the  old  man  quite  cursing  himself  for  so  rashly 
touching  the  spring  of  emotion.  The  calm,  genial  treatment 
to  which  he  was  accustomed  could  be,  and  had  ever  been,, 
the  only  thing. 

"  It  is  as  he  was  as  a  little  thing,  when  he  saw  the  horse 
killed  in  the  street,"  said  the  woman  later,  when  she  had  put 
the  boy  to  bed,  and  consoled  him  in  her  simple  fashion.  "  He 
was  furious  with  crying  first,  and  turned  sick  afterwards. 
Monsieur  remembers?" 

"  Revoke,  yes."  He  nodded,  reflecting  in  his  chair.  "  He 
might  have  seen  something  disagreeable  on  the  way  here, 
possibly.  If  so,  it  is  finished,  Margot,  for  he  will  never  tell 
us.  We  should  never  have  heard  the  other  horror,  baby  as 
he  was,  if  Lucien  had  not  been  there." 

Margot  thought  he  looked  vexed :  brooding  at  least.  She 
did  not  in  consequence  point  the  moral  of  the  imprudence 
of  dismissing  "  le  petit  "  to  unknown  persons  and  strange 
cooking  for  a  week.  Monsieur  must  now,  after  all,  feel  that 
for  himself. 

"  Monsieur  Antoine  will  forget,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "  It 
is  not  as  if  one  was  a  girl,  hey?    He  has  so  many  things." 

"  Fritz  will  come,"  said  M.  Lemaure :  a  clear  confession 
that  he  felt  at  sea. 

"  It  was  Monsieur's  M.  Fritz  who  went  to  him  that  time- 
when  he  was  ill  about  the  horse,"  said  Margot,  who  seldom 
attempted  Reuss's  name  in  public.  "  It  was  singular,  with 
all  his  beard,  and  the  noise  he  makes,  and  those  strange 


M  O  R  I  C  Z  167 

words  he  uses,  to  see  him  take  up  the  little  one.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  always  a  brave  child,"  Margot  finished  to  her- 
self, as  she  withdrew,  to  resume  her  sadly  interrupted  cook- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOLIDAYS 

Antoine  had  satisfied  even  himself  as  to  the  dainty  com- 
pletion of  every  composition  he  had  studied  under  Moricz, 
when,  at  the  least  expected  moment,  Reuss  arrived. 

Coming  back  from  a  morning  visit  to  the  library  with 
his  grandfather,  he  found  a  bulky  form  in  the  largest  study 
chair.  Fritz  had  found  the  album  of  press  opinions  col- 
lected by  Philip,  and  was  shaking  over  it.  He  read  one  out, 
in  stilted  French  made  more  absurd  by  his  accent,  as  the 
pair  entered. 

"Is  this  he?"  he  inquired.  "This  unfamiliar  sprig  of 
perfection?  " 

"  Put  it  down,"  said  Antoine,  seizing  the  book.  "  They 
are  all  stupid  papers  that  Philippe  reads.  He  finds  them  on 
purpose,  to  be  stupid." 

"  But  it  is  an  admirable  series — in  order  above  all.  Thy 
Philip  is  a  wit ;  and  what  devotion  to  collect  them." 

"  He  meant  me  to  mind,"  replied  Antoine,  "  and  so  when 
I  didn't,  he  stopped.  I  am  glad  you  have  come."  Insidious 
strong  fingers  slipped  round  Reuss's  neck,  and  he  was 
diverted  from  his  studies." 

"  He  is  thinner  than  ever,"  he  grunted,  feeling  the  boy 
in  return.  "  Say,  my  most  celebrated,  thou  art  ready  to  come 
with  me  at  once?  Know  that  we  are  both  promised  for  a 
concert  in  Miinchen  ten  days  hence." 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  said  Antoine,  looking  him  over 
thoughtfully. 

i68 


HOLIDAYS  169 

"  What  arrogance !  You  do  not  ask  what  I  have  offered 
them  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal  for  you,  and  a  Httle  for  me  in  the  middle 
of  that  noise.'' 

He  laughed  at  the  great  man  confidently.  It  was  genuine 
relief  to  M.  Lemaure  to  see  him  so  happy.  Turning  aside, 
he  left  them  tctc-d-tcte  deliberately. 

"  Impudent,"  said  Reuss.  "  I  have  given  you  also  some 
noise  to  make,  and  against  my  brother-in-law's  orchestra, 
which  is  not  Fauchard's." 

"  Bah !  "  Antoine  grimaced.  "  It  will  not  be  like  tJiat. 
There  will  be  very  good  and  serious  (ernst)  people."  He 
clasped  his  hands  unconsciously. 

"What  do  you  know  of  it?"  ejaculated  Reuss.  "That 
is  the  first  time,  Charles,  I  ever  saw  him  look  pious  in  his 
life." 

"  Perhaps  he  remembers,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  Six  years  ago,"  said  Reuss.  "  It  is  not  possible.  Be- 
sides, he  slept  at  all  our  concerts — that  is  his  habit." 

"  I  will  not  sleep  at  this,"  said  Antoine.  "  Miinchen  is  a 
nice  hot  place.  Yes,  I  remember  it."  He  had  paid  a  visit 
to  Reuss's  family  there  at  eight  years  old — one  of  his  most 
enchanting  memories. 

"  Hot  it  will  be,  in  September,"  the  stout  conductor 
groaned.  "  Listen  now :  we  leave  Paris  to-night,  no  chance 
to  think  twice." 

"  To-night,  yes,"  assented  Antoine,  undisturbed.  "  There 
is  an  express  by  Strasbourg  about  nine." 

Reuss  shook  again.  "  Thou  hast  not  lost  that  taste  then 
— ^the  child  it  is!  Antoine,  if  you  will  indulge  me  so  far,  I 
wish  to  forego  trains.  We  have  six  days  to  waste  en  route, 
you  understand,  and  I  wish  to  stop  everywhere.  Your 
patience  will  be  greatly  taxed  with  me,  since  we  could  go  in 
one  night.    But  I  am  fat,  and  like  leisure."     . 

Antoine  could  barely  wait  to  hear  him  out.  His  eyes 
blazed,  and  he  seized  Fritz  by  the  collar.  "  The  auto? — the 
new  one? — oh,  may  I  drive?" 


lyo  SUCCESSION 

"  You  may  not,"  roared  Reuss.  "  I  make  this  pkn  for 
the  sake  of  your  company  solely  ;  and  you  prefer  mechanism 
to  me." 

"  No,  no,"  Antoine  reassured  him.  "  It  is  only — I  do 
know.    I  can  do  it  very  well,  if  he  likes  to  change." 

"  He  will  doubtless  have  his  moments  of  exhaustion," 
said  Reuss,  with  concentrated  sarcasm.  "  We  will  watch 
for  them  behind,  hey? — and  meanwhile  you  will  talk  to  me." 

"  That  one  can  safely  promise,"  murmured  j\I.  Lemaure 
over  his  letters. 

"  To  be  sure,  Charles.  You  will  be  left  in  peace  at  last. 
You  have  found  such  a  rattle  exhausting  probably.  I  will 
take  him  off  at  once,  then — I  had  thought  of  it.  And  he  is 
ready."    Indeed  the  boy's  awakened  look  said  as  much. 

"  Do  not  be  impatient,  children,"  said  ]\1.  Lemaure.  "  You 
stay  to  lunch,  and  talk  to  me  politely  afterwards.  After 
three,  you  may  start  when  you  like:  the  sooner  the  better, 
doubtless." 

"  It  is  our  holiday,  maitre,"  pleaded  Fritz,  "  and  it  will 
soon  be  over.  Now  come."  He  drew  Antoine  to  him,  ob- 
serving that  before  the  start,  he  wished  to  know  the  worst. 
His  questions  were  penetrating,  and  his  eyes  still  more  so, 
but  Antoine  bore  it  well,  from  him. 

"  Humph,"  said  Fritz.  "  Well,  that  is  not  so  bad.  I  need 
not  fill  the  car  with  drugs  and  stimulants,  as  I  had  thought." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Antoine,  frowning.  "  I  want  none,  with 
you." 

"  And  which  am  I,  of  the  two  ?  "  demanded  Fritz,  with 
interest. 

"  Not  the  stimulant,  I  beg,"  said  the  guardian's  voice, 
beyond.    "  He  has  had  it  this  season." 

"  Hey  ?    Whom  hast  thou  had  ?  " 

"  Moricz,"  said  Antoine  very  gently. 

"  Never !  The  black  demon.  .  .  .  Charles  " — he  swung 
about — "what  are  you  thinking  of?  You  are  mad."  His 
vigour  was  terrific,  and  M.  Lemaure  had  then  and  there  the 
last  of  his  qualms.    If  Fritz  was  on  Lucien's  side,  he  was 


HOLIDAYS  171 

certainly  out-matched.  Behind  Antoine's  back,  his  glance 
crossed  his  friend's,  and  he  shooki  his  head  slightly. 

"  Which  way  do  we  go  to  Bavaria?  "  said  Antoine,  study- 
ing his  fingers. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Reuss.     "  Art  thou  couronne  ?  " 

"  Moricz  said — be  quiet,  Bebe — that  he  had  proved  him- 
self worthy  of  our  high  traditions,  by  a  pedantic  persistence 
he  could  only  trace  to  an  English  origin  :  and  that  if  he  holds 
the  same  rate  of  advance  for  ten  years  to  come,  when  he 
will  be  of  a  respectable  age  to  face  the  world,  he  sees  no 
reason  why  we  should  be  ashamed  of  him." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  said  Antoine,  whose  frown  had  cleared 
to  relief.  "  Can't  he  make  up  a  lot  of  words,  when  he  talks 
like  that?" 

"Never  mind  words,  Thoii  hast  the  thing?  It  is  im- 
portant." 

Antoine  nodded,  and  signified  his  class  with  a  finger. 

"  Oho  !  but  we  will  flaunt  it  in  Franz  Lorbeer's  face !  He 
who  wished  at  the  last  to  replace  thee  with  Lemonski." 

"Has  Rudolf  played  wfth  that  orchestra?"  snapped 
Antoine. 

"  No,  liebchen.  How,  wert  thou  going  to  refuse?  "  Fritz 
laughed  at  him,  his  whole  great  body  shaking.  "  Give  me 
l^iper,  Charles.  I  must  write  a  line  to  Franz  at  once,  and 
Antoine  shall  help  me.  Personally,"  Fritz  murmured,  "  I 
always  suspected  that  little  crab  of  having  forged  his  testi- 
monial.    Ours  is  autograph,  hey  ?    Oh,  it  is  colossal !  " 

His  triumph  was  childish,  and  as  loudly  expressed.  The 
boy  beside  him  looked  under  his  lashes  in  M.  Lemaure's 
direction,  as  though  asking  leave  to  smile.  The  first  blaze  of 
Reuss's  broad  sun  almost  disconcerted  him,  accustomed  now 
to  the  half-lights  as  he  was.  But  he  loved  it,  to  the  point 
of  rapture,  as  was  clear  to  see.  His  very  appearance  had 
changed,  and  his  face  wore  its  natural  youthful  lines,  almost 
sleepy  in  their  pure  contentment.  Fritz  was  the  nearest  to 
a  spirit  of  play  he  had  ever  known,  and  his  coming  chased 
the  clouds  of  school-time  as  none  other  could  do.    He  was 


172  SUCCESSION 

far  less  serious  than  Reuss  over  the  letter,  as  an  occasional 
dry  suggestion  showed. 

"  Moqueur,  thou  art  of  thy  race,"  said  Reuss,  pinching 
him  left-handed.  "  But  these  things  are  the  weighty  ones, 
be  it  understood.  We  practise  competitive  advertisement, 
the  science  of  the  age.  While  I  and  our  Herr  Philip  ad- 
vertise you,  you  do  well  to  keep  silence." 

So  Antoine  kept  it,  not  unwillingly ;  for  he  had  really 
too  many  pressingly  agreeable  thoughts  to  talk. 

M.  Lemaure  chose  to  make  himself  so  charming  that 
afternoon  that  it  was  fully  five  o'clock  before  Dr  Reuss 
found  himself  able  to  carry  his  captive  away.  He  simply 
telephoned  to  the  hotel  at  intervals  to  say  "  an  hour  longer," 
and  Antoine  was  rather  scandalised — thinking  of  his  prob- 
able friend,  the  chauffeur.  Even,  at  the  last  moment,  and 
on  an  impulse,  Fritz  invited  M.  Lemaure  to  accompany 
them. 

"  Never,"  he  said,  with  emphasis.  "  I  am  never  de  trop, 
of  my  own  seeking." 

Antoine  glanced  at  him.  "  You  might  come  in  the  train, 
for  the  concert,"  he  observed,  with  hesitation. 

"  There  are  trains,  to  be  sure,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Fast 
and  slow.  But,  on  making  a  comparison,  I  find  myself  so 
much  better  here." 

"  You  will  be  quiet,  without  the  violin."  Antoine  gave 
the  straps  of  the  instrument  a  deprecating  pull,  and  picked 
it  up. 

"  To  be  sure;  life  is  more  peaceful  without  scales  at  six 
o'clock."  His  grandfather  settled  back  on  the  cushions. 
"  One  has  one's  cat  and  one's  chimney  corner,"  he  mur- 
mured.   "  There  is  all  that  is  left." 

"  I  will  write  to  you  about  it,"  said  Antoine  suddenly. 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu,  what  a  privilege !  Keep  him  to  it,  Reuss. 
It  is  a  sight  to  see  him  write  a  letter  nowadays.  The  more 
he  plays,  the  less  he  can  write  or  spell.    And  in  French,  too, 


HOLIDAYS  173 

from  Bavaria! — even  if  I  cannot  read,  I  must  store  it  for 
the  curious." 

"  I  will  write  well,"  said  Antoine,  gazing  at  his  violin, 
evidently  troubled. 

"  He  will  learn  soon  enough,  if  the  thing  does  not  go," 
his  conductor  suggested  softly. 

"  He  shall  not  learn  it !  "  cried  Antoine,  trampling  out  of 
the  net  of  teasing  phrases.  "  It  is  to  be  good  this  time.  It 
will  be!  " 

Nor  indeed,  seeing  him  stand  at  the  friend's  side,  and 
knowing  the  patient  work  he  had  done,  did  his  grandfather 
doubt  it  would  be  good. 

The  six  days'  summer  journey  was  a  fairy  tale,  so  won- 
derful that  for  one  at  least  of  the  companions  it  hardly  bore 
the  telling. 

The  smooth  run  by  night  to  the  frontier  that  inaugurated 
it  was  not  the  least  wonderful  part.  Antoine  had  never 
been  in  such  a  great  car  before,  with  such  a  dignified  driver 
or  such  lordly  lamps ;  and  he  and  Reuss  were  alone  in  pos- 
session, sole  company  in  the  darkness.  He  looked  on  at  the 
pageantry  of  their  start  from  the  great  hotel  as  if  he  made 
no  part  of  it,  but  withal  enormously  amused.  A  crowd  of 
bowing  grooms  and  waiters  was  an  entertaining  show  to 
Antoine ;  and  the  fact  that  Dr  Reuss  took  it  gravely  only 
added  to  the  comedy.  Reuss,  a  potentate  born,  was  not 
averse  to  show,  and  demanded  ease.  Antoine's  comments, 
suggesting  a  frivolous  attitude,  provoked  from  him  a  lecture 
on  the  subject,  or  rather  the  opening  sentences  of  one  which 
certainly  sounded  very  grand  in  German.  It  was  not  im- 
pressive apparently.  The  audience  simply  giggled  at  his 
best  period,  which  happened  to  have  three  verbs  at  the  end 
of  it — and  the  lecturer  thought  it  unprofitable  to  pursue. 

"  The  young  and  inexperienced  know  nothing  of  these 
things,"  said  he.  "  Now,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this 
laughter  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  at  you,"  said  the  audience,  breathless. 


174  SUCCESSION 

"  Not?  Is  it  likely  it  should  be?  What  is  it  then,  dear 
child  ? " 

"  It  is  nice  to  laugh,  rather.  I  think  I  have  not,  for  a 
long  time."  Antoine  wiped  his  eyes.  "I  am  glad,"  he  said 
unsteadily,  "  to  come  away  from  all  that.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  feel  so  glad.    I  suppose  I  was  tired,  rather." 

Reuss  put  a  solid  arm  about  him,  as  though  to  protect. 
"  Listen,"  he  said,  "  and  let  me  know  the  truth.  Wouldst 
thou  rather  that  Lemonski  took  the  solos  on  Monday  week  ? 
It  is  still  very  possible,  for  Franz  had  been  inquiring.  A 
telegram  to  him  from  Cologne  would  do  it." 

"  No,  no,"  the  boy  protested  eagerly.  "  I  would  rather 
nothing.  It  is  very  well,  with  you.  I  have  practised  so 
much,"  he  added  rapidly,  "  I  want  to  play  a  little." 

"  We  will  make  one  big  success."  The  old  conductor  re- 
turned his  smile,  looking  into  his  eyes.  "  And  having  that 
intention,"  he  pursued,  with  equal  decision,  "  we  will  think 
no  more  about  it." 

It  was  a  bargain :  they  did  not. 

Antoine  became  immersed  instead,  during  that  night  and 
the  days  following,  in  a  new  and  interesting  study — that  of 
a  rich  man's  life.  He  had  had  a  glimpse  of  it  with  Moricz ; 
but  Reuss's  idea  of  the  thing  was  decidedly  superior — in 
fact,  bore  no  comparison.  He  sowed  money  about  him  as 
he  moved  through  the  world,  like  a  large  and  happy  child ; 
and  only  the  best  things,  by  some  special  favour  of  Prov- 
idence towards  him,  grew  from  his  seeds.  On  the  very  first 
evening,  when  the  boy  turned  cold — and  he  had  a  way  of 
shivering  suddenly — Fritz  produced  with  no  apparent  effort 
a  mantle  lined  with  fur,  made  to  his  charge's  measure,  as  it 
seemed,  by  his  private  staff  of  fairies.  That  was  an  ex- 
ample of  his  royal  methods,  and  but  a  slight  foretaste  of 
what  was  to  come. 

They  flew  from  city  to  city,  making  by  the  way  elaborate 
plans  with  extreme  trouble,  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of  chang- 
ing them  at  a  moment's  notice,  if  they  came  upon  a  more  at- 
tractive stopping-place.    For  the  first  time  in  his  career  the 


HOLIDAYS  175 

boy  led  the  life  of  luxury,  travelling  or  resting  when  he 
would,  rising  late,  eating  of  the  best,  driving  in  state  to  see 
the  sights — and  he  would  see  everything  despite  his  stout 
friend's  protests — being  literally  spoiled  and  petted  as  much 
as  Fritz  could  spoil  him.  He  took  it  wonderfully  well,  show- 
ing himself  perhaps  a  little  quieter  than  usual,  for  indeed 
there  was  nothing  in  Reuss's  steady  sunshine  to  excite.  He 
was  divinely  happy,  for  all  his  occasional  gravity ;  and  he 
watched  Reuss's  proceedings  with  an  untiring  curiosity,  as 
though  his  companion  had  actually  possessed  a  wizard's 
wand. 

Several  of  the  places  they  passed  on  their  travels  he  had 
heard  about  already,  as  came  to  light  in  their  planning;  for 
Antoine's  European  geography  had  been  picked  up  in  con- 
versation with  his  grandfather,  who  had  made  the  best  of 
his  opportunities,  during  the  long  period  of  his  celebrity ; 
and  once  he  came  actually  upon  M.  Lemaure's  tracks,  in  a 
small  town,  where  Fritz,  having  friends  to  see,  passed  a 
night.  Simultaneously,  as  it  chanced,  he  touched  the  orbit 
of  Rudolf  Lemonski,  his  boy  rival,  who  was  also  touring  in 
southern  Germany,  and  who  had  been  engaged  to  play  at 
two  local  concerts  the  very  morrow  of  the  day  of  their  de- 
parture. In  this  town,  for  a  short  period,  Antoine  had  to 
be  "  careful  "  and  decorous  again ;  but,  beyond  that  not  till 
he  arrived  in  Munich  was  he  reminded  of  the  ennuis  of 
public  life. 

Fritz's  family  welcomed  Antoine  open-armed.  It  was 
fully  six  years  since  his  earlier  visit,  but  neither  he  nor  they 
had  forgotten  it.  He  remembered  the  handsome  modern 
house,  at  the  junction  of  two  pretty  avenues,  looking  so 
clean  and  orderly  to  his  French  eyes ;  the  spacious  rooms, 
always  "  hot  "  in  his  memory,  for  he  had  arrived  at  Christ- 
mas, shivering  from  a  long  solitary  journey,  and  the  great 
stove  had  been  his  first  friend ;  the  furniture,  a  revelation 
of  harmonious  shape  and  colour ;  and  lastly,  moving  against 
this  background,  Reuss's  two  prophetess  sisters   in  their 


176  SUCCESSION 

sweeping  gowns,  who  took  the  attitudes  of  pictures  with  no 
effort,  and  made  their  language  beautiful  in  Antoine's  ears, 
critical  as  were  those  young  ears,  even  then. 

The  remaining  sister,  with  her  husband  and  two  children, 
had  the  floor  above,  and  swelled  the  circle  round  Fritz's 
hearth  at  every  opportunity  hospitality  could  invent. 
Though  his  official  residence  was  now  Berlin,  it  was  still 
his  house  in  his  sisters'  eyes,  kept  faithfully  for  him  on  the 
open-handed  lines  he  had  instituted  before  an  imperative 
command  carried  him  away  to  the  north,  to  reign  in  an  alien 
land.  The  Lorbeers,  Antoine  found,  had  not  changed 
seriously  either,  though  Franz  was  greyer  and  more  distin- 
guished, and  Hans  and  Lotte  larger  and  more  responsible. 
They  had  been  his  playfellows  before,  older  a  little  in  years, 
but  far  younger  in  thought  than  he.  Now  the  welcome  of 
the  whole  group  was  tinged  with  respect ;  for  in  the  very 
vortex  of  art  which  this  house  represented  in  the  town,  the 
boy  whom  two  capitals  had  acclaimed  could  no  longer  be 
treated  like  the  charming  baby  of  another  land,  half  play- 
thing, half  curiosity,  that  he  had  been  at  eight  years  old. 

Hans  and  Lotte,  evidently  warned  by  parental  instruction 
to  be  on  their  good  behaviour,  were  carefully  formal  at 
first,  until  Antoine's  unconcealed  surprise  at  their  de- 
meanour, and  the  mistakes  in  his  German,  reassured  them. 
Then  they  leant  their  arms  on  the  table  to  either  side  of  him 
and,  round-eyed,  demanded  news  in  confidence:  Hans  of 
his  work  and  Lotte  of  his  health,  pursuing  him  with  close 
questions  in  turn  with  terrible  seriousness,  until  the  victim's 
answers  began  to  grow  wild,  and  he  looked  for  relief  to 
the  group  of  elders,  who  had  dropped  talk  about  the  stove 
to  listen,  amused.  It  was  in  fact  a  natural  entertainment, 
for  Antoine,  sympathetic  and  fluent  in  response,  and  most 
anxious  to  satisfy,  never  by  any  chance  gave  the  German 
children  what  they  wanted. 

"  Useless,  Lottchen,"  said  her  uncle.  "  Leave  the  poor 
boy  alone.  His  health  is  perfect  and  always  has  been,  hein, 
Antoine?    He  lives  most  irregularly,  seeks  no  baths,  takes 


HOLIDAYS  177, 

no  tonic  but  brandy,  of  which  he  is  rather  fond.  He  prefers 
a  bounding-  car  and  a  rug  to  sleep  in  to  the  best  hotel  bed, 
as  I  have  proved,  and  he  eats  all  the  most  impossible  things 
by  preference." 

Lottchen  sighed,  her  motherly  gaze  upon  the  visitor. 
"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  he  works  too  much." 

"  I  have  not  practised  for  six  days,"  said  Antoine. 
"  Nearly  a  week." 

"  I  should  tell  you  the  rehearsal  is  at  ten  to-morrow," 
said  Lorbeer,  turning.  "  And  the  concert  on  Saturday 
night.  I  was  explaining  to  Friedrich,  we  have  had  to  shift 
it  back." 

"  Ten  ?  "  cried  Hans,  concerned. 

"  And  a  dinner-party  to-night !  "  cried  Lottchen.  They 
gazed  at  one  another,  and  then  in  consternation  at  the  visitor 
between  them. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  said  the  visitor,  tilting  his  chair.  "  I  will 
not  go  to  bed." 

"  But  you  must,  dear,"  said  Lottchen  earnestly.  "  See  " 
— she  put  a  kind  hand  on  his  arm — "  when  do  you  get  up  ?  " 

"  At  six,  generally,"  said  Antoine.  "  Only  this  week, 
with  your  uncle,  I  have  been  rather  late." 

"  I  will  awaken  you  at  six,"  said  the  owl-like  Hans. 
"  Then  you  will  have  three  hours.  I  sleep  just  over  you, 
and  can  tread  heavily." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Antoine ;   "  if  you  like." 

"If  Hans  likes!"  Fraulein  Clara  murmured,  with  a 
touch  to  call  Lorbeer's  attention  to  his  son's  face.  "  The 
dear  little  angel — we  will  allow  no  stamping.  I  shall  waken 
him  myself,  at  nine.  That  will  be  time  enough  to  tune  his 
strings."  She  swept  the  soft  skirts  across  the  floor  to  the 
boy's  side.  "  I  would  I  could  put  him  to  bed  now,  but  we 
have  these  wearisome  heavyweights  coming  at  six  o'clock, 
who  must  see  him,  must  they  not,  Franz?  Will  Friedrich 
in  all  his  glory  not  suffice  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  boy,  in  haste.  "  I  am  only  sleepy  with 
the  wind,  because  we  came  so  fast  from  Niirnberg."     He 


178  SUCCESSION 

rose  to  his  feet  as  she  still  stood  at  his  side,  a  hand  upon 
his  chair, 

"  He  has  grown  polite,"  observed  Clara  regretfully.  "  He 
is  taller  too.  Bertha.  He  would  not  need  to  sit  on  six  vol- 
umes now,  when  he  shares  with  Franz  in  the  quartets. 
Change  seats  then,"  she  added  with  a  touch,  "  and  go  to  our 
professor.     He  has  much  to  ask  you." 

The  circle  of  elders  made  room  for  him  at  once. 

"  You  remember  that  occasion  ?  "  said  Lorbeer. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Antoine  gravely.  "  I  was  very  afraid  of 
you.  I  thought,  if  I  made  a  mistake,  you  would  be  so  angry. 
But  you  and  he  only  laughed  when  I  did." 

"Do  they  never  laugh  at  home?"  said  Fraulein  Bertha. 

"  When  I  make  mistakes?  "    He  lifted  his  comical  brows. 

"  He  cries,  rather,"  said  Reuss.  "  That  is  more  the  order 
of  the  day." 

"  Not  nowadays,  I  am  sure,"  said  Clara. 

"  I  do  not  play  much  ensemble  nowadays,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Aristocrat,"  said  Reuss,  from  the  farther  corner.  The 
boy  turned  his  look  that  way,  and  the  quick-witted  company 
expected  him  to  make  the  obvious  retort  on  the  autocrat 
conductor ;  but  he  failed  to  attack,  only  smiled  faintly,  and 
dropped  his  eyes.  He  was  standing  close  to  his  friend  the 
stove,  touching  the  porcelain  dragon-heads  with  absent 
fingers.  He  remembered  every  grinning  mouth,  every  flower 
of  the  wreaths  they  held,  with  a  child's  unfailing  memory. 
They  had  been,  unaware  to  himself,  the  symbol  and  centre 
of  the  romance  woven  about  him  that  long-past  Christmas, 
almost  the  only  season  of  true  childhood  he  had  known. 

Feeling  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  he  took  a  seat,  finding  him- 
self placed  between  Franz  Lorbeer  and  his  wife,  who  had 
touched  him.  She  was  the  youngest  of  the  Reuss  sisters, 
and  unknown  to  him,  for  when  he  had  stayed  there  before, 
she  was  away.  While  the  talented  family  talked,  and  he 
answered  now  and  again  as  necessity  arose,  Antoine  ex- 
plored Frau  Lorbeer  with  curious,  sidelong  glances.  She 
was  smaller  than  her  sisters,  plump,  and  delicately  made. 


HOLIDAYS 


179 


She  had  pretty  hands,  which  she  kept  peacefully  folded ; 
but  her  observant  eyes  seemed  to  be  everywhere  in  the  room, 
and  Antoine  was  sure  by  the  way  her  husband  spoke  to  her 
that  she  was  clever.  A  lift  of  her  eyebrows  to  Franz  made 
him  hand  her  a  fan ;  a  glance  at  the  clock  and  a  nod  to  her 
children  was  sufficient  to  dismiss  them  in  good  order  from 
the  room.  She  said  so  little  that  she  made  Antoine  feel 
rather  afraid,  and  his  nervous  glances  showed  it,  as  he  an- 
swered her  few  soft  questions :  he  was  certain  she  noticed 
all  his  faults,  and  she  did  not  smile  at  them.  Only  one 
thing  reassured  him,  which  was  that  at  one  point  in  the  dis- 
cussion, Fritz  laid  unobtrusively  his  great  paw  in  her  lap, 
and  she  touched  it  in  caress  with  two  little  pointed  fingers. 
Fritz  caught  at  the  fingers,  but  before  his  hand  could  close 
even,  hers  were  again  folded  on  her  knee.  Antoine  glanced 
at  her  face,  but  still  she  did  not  smile.  He  thought  her, 
though  alarming,  extraordinarily  attractive.  He  could  not 
help  wondering  if  she  had  ever  cried,  her  brow  was  so 
serene;  yet  he  vaguely  recalled  a  sad  story  of  her  youth, 
to  which  his  grandfather  had  alluded.  His  curiosity  grew 
to  such  a  point  that  he  only  began  to  give  his  mind  to  the 
dialogue,  when  she  spoke. 

"  How  could  I  warn  you  ?  " — Lorbeer  was  contending  on 
the  subject  of  the  change  of  date — "  when  you  never  passed 
two  nights  in  one  spot,  or  let  us  know  where  you  would  be." 

"  That  was  Antoine's  fault,"  said  Fritz.  "  Fortunately, 
he  will  suffer  chiefly.  But  I  had  hoped  to  have  a  little  leisure 
first." 

"  It  is  better  surely  to  get  it  over,"  said  Frau  Lorbeer. 
"  Then  we  shall  all  be  comfortable." 

The  company  laughed,  as  at  a  family  joke;  her  fair  face 
did  not  change. 

"Will  you  not  come  to  hear  me,  Carlotta?"  said  Fritz. 
"Or  him?    I  tell  you,  he  is  worth  an  effort." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  since  you  say  so,"  said  his  sister. 
"Shall  I  come?" 


i8o  SUCCESSION 

To  Antoine's  disturbance  he  found  her  grey  eyes  turned 
on  him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  Not  if  you  have  some  things  at 
home." 

She  looked  in  mild  triumph  at  Fritz.  "  I  need  not,  you 
see,"  she  said.    "  He  knows  where  my  duties  are." 

"  He  may  well  know,"  growled  Fritz,  "  with  one  of  them 
overhead  at  her  scales." 

"  Does  it  tease  you?  "  said  Carlotta  to  her  neighbour. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  boy  again,  and  blushed  visibly.  The 
honourable  regard  the  rest  paid  him  he  could  hardly  bear 
from  her,  though  why,  he  could  not  have  told. 

"  Now  that  girl  is  seventeen,"  Bertha  observed,  "  it  is 
Carlotta's  duty  to  take  her  out  a  little.  I  have  told  her  so 
countless  times." 

"  And  why  ?  "  said  Carlotta. 

"  To  marry  her,"  said  Fritz,  at  a  venture,  and  the  com- 
pany applauded.  Frau  Lorbeer  just  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and  her  eyes  lay  on  her  husband's  for  a  fraction  of  time. 

"  You  would  not  know,  Friedrich,"  he  said.  "  I  have  had 
two  offers  for  Lottchen  during  the  last  six  months.  It 
grows  a  penalty  to  have  daughters  so  well  trained.  Car- 
lotta bade  me  discourage  both,  and  I  suppose  I  must  look 
higher." 

"  Poor  Franz  has  so  little  time  for  matchmaking,"  said 
Bertha,  neatly  copying  his  tone. 

"  And  meanwhile,"  Lorbeer  proceeded,  "  on  the  kitchen 
table,  in  the  intervals  of  cookery,  she  instructs  Hans  in  the 
law." 

"  And  the  tradesmen  in  justice,"  Clara  cried. 

"  And  alarms  us  all  by  her  debating  skill,"  said  Fritz. 

"  I  think  this  little  one  had  better  rest,"  said  Carlotta ; 
and  with  no  delay,  a  prophetess-sister  swept  round,  and 
putting  a  hand  on  Antoine,  drew  him  with  her  from  the 
room.  He  was  astonished,  but  submissive,  that  being  clearly 
the  general  attitude  to  the  fair  little  lady. 

"  Madame  your  sister  does  not  like  music,"  he  suggested 


HOLIDAYS  i8i 

rather  shyly  to  Clara,  who  showed  him  the  resources  of  his 
room,  some  of  which  pleased  his  mechanical  mind  in  their 
delicate  ingenuity. 

''  Carlotta?  She  knows  more  of  it  than  anyone  of  us  ex- 
cept Friedrich,"  said  Clara.  "  What  she  does  not  like  is 
assemblies — crowds.     She  goes  out  very  little." 

"  That  is  like  grandpapa,"  said  Antoine;  but  on  reflection 
and  comparison  of  the  two,  he  found  the  peculiarity  less 
explicable  in  a  young  and  pretty  woman,  than  in  M.  Le- 
maure. 

Returning  to  the  family,  Clara  found  them  advancing 
theories  as  to  Antoine's  speechlessness,  and  promptly  took 
a  hand. 

"  I  thought  you  said  he  was  a  chatterbox,"  said  Bertha. 
"  Certainly  he  used  to  be.  He  can  hardly  be  shy,  with  his 
training." 

"  He  is  sleepy,  poor  dear,"  said  the  younger  sister. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Lorbeer.  "  He  was  very  wide 
awake  while  he  sat  here,  taking  you  all  in  as  you  talked." 

"  He  has  lost  the  habit  of  the  family  ensemble,"  Clara 
suggested,  "  like  the  musical.  He  has  lived  in  the  small 
circle,  or  tete-a-tete  probably."  She  appealed  to  Fritz,  who 
nodded,  amused. 

"  A  clever  child,"  Bertha  struck  in,  "  spends  so  much 
brain  on  each  unit,  that  the  mass  at  first  is  sure  to  disturb 
it.  Remember,  to  all  practical  purposes,  we  are  strange  to 
him  entirely.'' 

"  Friedrich  is  not  strange,"  said  Clara,  "  but  he  was  more 
forthcoming  to  Franz  than  to  Friedrich.  Flow  do  you  ac- 
count for  that?  " 

'■  Has  he  grown  fearful  of  you,  Fritz?"  said  Bertha. 

"  Far  from  it,"  said  Dr  Reuss. 

"  He  never  even  used  your  name.  The  Hcrr  Doktor,  the 
Herr  your  brother — most  paralysing  formality." 

"  It  must,"  Bertha  concluded,  "  be  timidity.  He  was  con- 
fused by  numbers." 

Fritz,  appealed  to,  waved  his  hands. 


i82  SUCCESSION 

"  I  should  call  it  rather  the  instinct  of  society,"  Frau 
Lorbeer  said. 

"  Good,  my  dear,"  he  smiled.  "  But  explain  it  for  them, 
will  you  not?  " 

"  Why  should  not  you,  when  you  know  him  well?  "  said 
Carlotta. 

Fritz  roused  to  action  at  the  summons.  "  I  can  only 
demonstrate  by  opposites,  Bertha,"  he  said.  "  A  shy  child, 
of  common  race,  would  have  fastened  upon  me,  as  knowing 
me  intimately,  while  he  knows  you  not  at  all.  He  would 
have  worked  by  slow  degrees  from  me  to  others.  This,  the 
Lemaure  breed,  starts  the  other  way.  He  takes  in  the  whole, 
and  my  place  in  the  whole,  which  is,  be  it  noted,  a  majestic 
one." 

There  was  a  feminine  exclamation,  but  Lorbeer  nodded 
gravely. 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend,"  he  said.    "  Go  on." 

"  There  is  no  more  to  go  on  to,"  said  Fritz.  "  He  works 
by  pure  instinct  on  the  large  scale  always.  He  has  grasp  in 
everything — was  that  not  your  idea,  Carlotta?  He  would 
have  it  of  Lorbeer's  orchestra,  if  I  gave  it  him  to-morrow. 
You  will  see  the  results  of  his  study,  most  probably,  this 
evening." 

And  later  the  critical  sisters  admitted  that  it  might  be 
true. 

Antoine  awoke  next  morning  singularly  seYene,  and  pre- 
served the  tranquillity  all  day.  There  was  nothing  to  dis- 
turb him  indeed.  The  day  was  laid  out  for  him  in  the  work 
he  could  do  best,  and  attentive  indulgence  from  all  filled  the 
intervals.  He  had  slept  well,  almost  to  his  own  surprise, 
and  his  brain  was  very  clear  and  vigorous ;  he  felt  sure  of 
himself,  and  charmed  by  his  new  surroundings,  which  struck 
his  fancy  even  more  by  daylight,  mellowed  by  the  sunlight 
which  filtered  into  every  corner  of  the  building  through  the 
large  clean  windows  of  the  flat.  It  was  all,  to  Antoine,  the 
outcome  of  a  happy  idea ;  not  suspecting  that  two  ladies  and 


HOLIDAYS  183 

a  succession  of  servants  had  spent  for  years  minute  and 
constant  pains  upon  it.  He  imagined  that  Clara  was  the 
inspired  inventor,  too,  because  he  hked  her  best,  and  treated 
her  with  care  and  attention  in  consequence. 

During  the  leisurely  morning  hours,  when  nobody  seemed 
to  wish  to  hurry  him,  he  discovered  that  Lorbeer  had  been 
deputed  to  escort  him  to  the  hall  of  rehearsal,  whither 
Reuss  had  already  gone  before.  Everything  was  prepared, 
and  Lorbeer  had  laid  aside  his  occupations  for  the  purpose, 
it  seemed  as  a  matter  of  course;  so  that  Antoine  did  not 
venture  to  suggest  that  he  could  find  the  way  alone. 
Whether  they  regarded  him  more  as  a  baby  or  a  royal  per- 
sonage it  was  really  useless  to  consider.  They  were  all  as 
agreeable  as  they  were  "curious,"  these  German  people; 
and  he  let  things  take  their  course  contentedly, 

'"  Will  you  walk?  "  said  Lorbeer  quietly,  at  starting.  "  It 
is  some  w^ay." 

"  We  have  the  time?  "  queried  Antoine  surprised, 

"  Plenty.     Reuss  takes  the  symphonies  first." 

"  Please,  then,"  said  the  boy.    "  The  sun  is  so  beautiful." 

So  Franz  took  the  violin  out  of  his  hands,  and  they  walked 
through  the  clean  decorous  streets.  It  was  a  brilliant  morn- 
ing of  early  autumn,  and  the  charming  town  was  looking 
its  best.  Munich  was  full  of  visitors,  returning  from  the 
highlands  beyond,  or  stopping  for  the  musical  festivals 
which  followed  one  another,  in  this  or  that  quarter  of  the 
city,  almost  without  cessation.  They  saw  concerts  and 
operas  advertised  on  all  hands ;  and  once  Lemonski's  name, 
in  truly  immense  letters,  seemed  to  clamour  for  remark. 

"  He  plays  in  a  month's  time,"  said  Lorbeer,  "  but  not  in 
our  hall." 

"  Tiens !  "  said  Antoine  demurely,  "  You  do  not  conduct 
at  that?" 

Lorbeer  glanced  at  him,  and  feared  his  brother-in-law 
had  told  tales. 

"  Friedrich  dislikes  Lemonski,"  he  said,  smiling  slightly. 
"  But  when  we  spoke  of  it,  he  was  already  in  Germany. 


i84  SUCCESSION 

My  sole  arm,  Antoine,  would  not  have  reached  as  far  as 
Paris,  I  admit  it." 

The  boy  laughed  with  good  humour.  "  You  like  Fritz  to 
take  your  orchestra  ?  "  he  suggested,  coming  near. 

"  How  should  I  not,"  said  Franz,  "  when  half  of  them 
once  were  his  ?  " 

Antoine  walked  on  for  two  minutes  before  he  said,  "  I  do 
like  to  be  here,"  looking  round  the  gay  little  park  they  were 
traversing,  with  a  concentrated  delight  that  matched  the 
tremble  in  his  tone.  "  It  is  all  such  a  happy  place,"  he  said, 
with  a  gesture.  "  All  the  grass  is  so  green.  Everyone  has 
happy  faces." 

"  It  is  an  exhilarating  air,"  said  Franz  still  soberly,  though 
his  eyes  shone  with  pride  in  his  city.  "  You  would  feel  the 
change  from  Paris,  doubtless.  It  is  but  a  little  distance, 
that  way,  to  the  mountains." 

"  Do  not !  "  the  boy  cried  sharply,  "  or  I  must  go."  He 
paused  and  gathered  himself  together.  "  I  remember  the 
snow  mountains  in  Savoie,"  he  said.  "  I  went  there  once 
with  grandpapa,  to  get  well." 

"  Ha ! "  said  Lorbeer,  glancing  at  him,  as  though  in 
recollection.    "  My  wife  says  you  should  go  there  again." 

"  She  said  so  ?    But  I  cannot.    I  mean,  I  have  not  time." 

"  My  wife's  advice,"  said  the  professor,  as  though  urged 
by  an  unusual  impulse  to  speak,  "  is,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself,  independent  of  circumstances.  It  is  the  ideal,  al- 
ways.   She  will  not  make  the  best  of  what  must  be." 

"  I  thought  she  was  like  that,"  said  Antoine  reflectively. 
"  That  is  the  Residence,  I  think,  down  there." 

Lorbeer  returned  to  his  role  of  cicerone ;  but  he  had  lit- 
tle to  do,  for  Antoine's  eight-year-old  impressions  had  been 
deep,  and  his  memory  for  buildings  and  bridges,  as  much 
as  for  people,  was  surprising. 

In  the  artist's  room  behind  the  concert  hall,  a  telegram 
lay  upon  the  table. 

"  It  is  Monsieur  Edgell?"  said  the  hall  functionary,  and 
handed  it.     It  was  merely  a  short  message — "  Best  luck  in 


HOLIDAYS  i8s 

Germany  " — from  his  Scotch  friends  the  Earraids  at  Baden, 
who  had  doubtless  seen  the  papers ;  but  in  Antoine's  present 
mood  it  was  an  added  crumb  of  joy.  His  eyes  were  bril- 
liant, and  he  smiled  at  Lorbeer  unconsciously  as  he  took 
the  violin  from  his  hands.  He  looked  the  instrument  over 
closely  once,  fixed  his  bow,  and  walked  up  the  little  stair- 
way, downi  W'hich  floated  unspeakable  sounds  of  instrument 
language,  and  so  out  upon  the  stage. 

He  stood  there  by  Reuss,  who  welcomed  him  with  a 
touch,  seeming,  amid  the  immense  empty  vistas,  very  small 
indeed.  He  had  his  ordinary  morning  clothes  of  English 
grey  tweed,  and  carried  himself  with  the  straightness  of  an 
English  schoolboy  on  his  good  behaviour.  He  was  a  sur- 
prise to  the  majority  of  the  orchestra,  who  had  been  expect- 
ing his  appearance  with  curiosity.  He  turned  once  half 
round  to  them,  for  there  was  a  little  applause,  and  gave  them 
his  serious  little  nod,  his  dark  eyes  taking  in  the  manner  of 
their  placing  in  one  practised  sweep.  Then  he  glanced  up 
at  Fritz,  and  took  his  own  place  fronting  forward  again. 
But  that  single  look  backward  had  been  enough  for  the 
curious ;  for  it  was  the  keen  young  face  and  beautiful  hands 
they  knew  already  by  his  photographs. 

One  of  his  solos  was  unaccompanied,  the  other  orches- 
trally  supported ;  but  he  gathered  by  the  general  sobriety, 
the  military  order,  and  the  idleness  of  certain  members  of 
the  orchestra,  that  he  was  to  go  through  his  concerto  first, 
though  that  itself  was  a  mere  form.  Reuss,  who  had  already 
rehearsed  two  symphonies,  stood  Jove-like  and  impassive, 
looking  down  upon  his  world.  Nothing  tired  him,  as  they 
knew ;  they  also  knew  by  his  eye  that  they  had  got  to 
please  him,  and  the  silence  before  the  opening  of  the  move- 
ment was  much  like  a  pause  for  prayer. 

Then  once  more  Antoine's  eyes  and  his  conductor's  met, 
and  Reuss  raised  the  baton  with  a  single  tap.  The  prelude 
began,  dawning  like  an  embodied  spirit'on  the  stillness. 

The  whole  went  with  the  most  elastic  ease,  and  the  morn- 
ing peace  of  Antoine's  spirits  were  very  apparent  while  he 


i86  SUCCESSION 

played.  To  have  Reuss  above  him  was  in  itself  security, 
not  the  constant  exasperation  of  the  nerves  he  found  in  the 
genial  M.  Fauchard.  Further,  as  he  soon  found,  no  more 
than  that  single  royal  presence  was  needed.  The  accom- 
paniment was  like  wax  in  Reuss's  hands,  he  made  them  him- 
self, and  gathered  his  child  Antoine  into  the  whole  without 
difficulty.  There  seemed,  at  the  end  of  all,  really  nothing 
to  say.  Fritz  gave  his  single  short  nod  implying  satisfaction, 
the  orchestra  relaxed  and  fell  into  discussion,  low-toned. 
The  soloist  stood  transfixed,  absently  reviewing  the  tasteful 
decorations  of  the  hall, 

"  That  will  suffice,  sir?  "  his  conductor  queried  in  French. 
The  boy,  starting  round,  caught  the  twinkle  under  his  heavy 
brows.  Throwing  off  his  dream,  he  leapt  upon  the  step  of 
the  rostrum. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  he  gasped.  "  But  I  am  afraid  of  you 
up  there." 

"  And  what  wouldst  thou  say,  if  thou  wert  not  afraid, 
thou  least  audacious  of  my  acc|uaintance  ?  " 

"  I  would  say  thank  you." 

"  It  is  said.  Thou  art  not  tired  ?  "  The  question  was  very 
low  indeed. 

"  I  think  I  never  should  be  here.  Everything  is  easy." 
He  threw  a  look  round  at  the  high  roof  of  the  hall. 

"  So  it  seemed,  truly,"  said  Reuss,  raised  his  head  again, 
and  straightened  his  broad  shoulders.  "  You  would  per- 
haps like  to  take  the  Romance,"  he  observed,  in  formal 
tones  and  with  a  plural  pronoun. 

"  If  one  has  time,"  said  the  soloist  demurely. 

**  We  have  the  time,"  said  Reuss,  glancing  at  his  watch, 
"  unless  these  ladies  have  to  go."  He  turned  to  the  harpists, 
hitherto  unoccupied,  and  sitting  like  two  of  the  serene 
statues  on  the  classical  museums  of  Munich.  They  smiled 
simultaneously  in  graceful  dissent ;  and  the  orchestra,  rein- 
forced by  them,  gathered  to  close  attention. 

This  item,  contrasted  completely  as  it  was  with  the  former 
in  style,  went  with   almost   identical  ease,   and  only  one 


HOLIDAYS  187 

interruption.  M.  Lemaure's  Romance,  with  its  peculiar 
rhythms,  and  constant  changes  of  tempo,  was  as  easy  to  his 
grandson  as  breathing.  It  had  been  his  earliest  programme 
piece  of  any  note,  and  might  almost  hav>e  been  written  for 
him,  so  singularly  did  it  fit  the  ardour  of  his  youthful  style. 
To  Reuss,  who  had  heard  him  play  it  first  at  nine  years  old, 
his  rendering  to-day  seemed  well-nigh  perfect  in  its  natural 
grace,  and  the  finely  controlled  force  behind  that  was 
Moricz's  dowry.  There  was  a  considerable  solo  towards  the 
end.  charmingly  leisurely  and  lyrical,  in  which  none  but  the 
expert  could  have  detected  the  difficult  tricks  of  a  cunning 
master  wdio  wrote  for  his  own  instrument.  To-day  the  per- 
former, recognising  the  limit  of  time  at  their  disposal,  had 
no  hesitation  in  shortening  this  section.  Skipping  the  more 
effective  passages,  he  passed  straight,  with  a  deprecating 
little  bend  of  the  head,  to  the  arpeggios  that  heralded  the 
orchestral  chord. 

There  was  a  sound  behind  him  as  he  did  so,  just  per- 
ceptible, like  many  mouths  shutting  on  a  sigh.  Fritz  the 
autocrat  struck  the  desk,  and  flung  the  musical  fabric  from 
him,  with  a  movement  of  his  great  chest.  A  cloak  of  silence 
descended  instantly. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Antoine  audibly  in  the  pause. 

"  It  is  pardon,"  said  Reuss,  his  eyes  on  his  people.  "  I 
must  trouble  you  to  go  back,  Alonsieur."  His  brows  were 
still  bent  low,  and  not  a  gleam  came  through. 

"  Yes.     How  many  bars?  " 

"  Before  the  opening  of  the  solo,  if  you  will  be  so  good. 
The  number  of  bars,"  said  Reuss,  "  we  leave  to  you." 

Antoine  followed  his  steady  gaze  to  the  faces  of  the  first 
violins. 

"  I  shall  play  it  all?  "  he  said  graciously,  half  to  them. 

"  So  we  might  waste  less  time,"  replied  the  leader,  a  sour- 
faced,  lanky  Pole ;  and  those  behind  him  laughed  beneath 
their  hands. 

"  I  am  sorry ;  I  did  not  know,"  Antoine  addressed  the 
conductor  in  French,  blushing  slightly. 


i88  SUCCESSION 

"  We  are  obliged,  nevertheless,  for  your  consideration," 
said  Reuss.    "  Now,  gentlemen." 

They  went  back  to  the  point  indicated,  and  Antoine,  turn- 
ing half  about,  with  the  same  gracious  manner,  and  the 
same  little  flush  beneath  his  downcast  eyes,  played  the  show 
passage  in  its  entirety  for  the  private  benefit  of  Lorbeer's 
orchestra.  The  effect  it  made  was  disdainfully  easy,  as  far 
as  possible  from  what  his  looks  implied ;  but  when  he  gave 
the  theme  away  to  the  accompanying  instruments,  with  a 
characteristic  and  dramatic  little  toss  of  his  wrist,  the  sour- 
faced  leader  found  time  to  raise  his  brows  at  his  neighbour, 
who  shut  his  mouth  in  response  and  nodded. 

At  the  close  of  all,  Reuss  came  down  from  his  Olympian 
heights,  and  presented  Antoine  to  a  few  chosen  members  of 
his  company.  Antoine  gave  them  each  a  careful  remark, 
and  took  their  compliments  with  gravity.  He  was  perfectly 
demure  till  they  had  got  rid  of  the  last  gentleman  on  the 
steps  of  the  exit,  and  had  seen  him  turn  the  corner  as  they 
crossed  the  street.  Then  he  shrugged  the  effects  off  him 
vigorously,  and  shook  himself. 

"Is  everybody  good  here?"  he  cried,  stopping  short  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  roadway.  The  only  result  of  the 
pathetic  appeal  was  that  he  was  seized  forcibly  by  either 
shoulder,  shot  forward,  and  then  conveyed  between  Lor- 
beer  and  Fritz,  like  a  prisoner  in  disgrace,  to  the  farther 
pavement. 

"  You  do  not  break  out  till  to-morrow  is  past,"  one  of  his 
gaolers  then  replied.  "  And  when  you  do,  Antoine,  I  should 
prefer  it  not  to  be  under  the  wheels  of  a  beer-dray." 

Antoine  glanced  behind  him.  "  They  would  have  walked 
round  me,"  he  observed  on  the  horses  whose  powerful 
hoofs  he  had  just  escaped.  "  They  were  very  good  as  well: 
I  saw  their  careful  eyes."  He  looked  up  at  his  gaoler,  in 
mischievous  apology. 

"  I  will  have  none  of  thy  street-urchin  pranks  here," 
growled  Reuss.  "  How  thou  hast  survived  so  many  years 
in  Paris  is  what  I  wonder." 


HOLIDAYS  189 

"  I  was  very  nearly  dead  once,"  said  Antoine,  turning 
over  his  memories,  "  in  the  Place  de  Rcnnes.  I  did  not  tell 
grandpapa.  It  is  a  difficult  place  sometimes,  with  all  those 
streets." 

"  How  old  were  you  ?  "  said  Lorbeer. 

"  Oh,  about  eight,"  said  Antoine  carelessly.  "  I  did  not 
remember  the  tramway,  that  was  all.  I  had  thought  of  all 
the  other  things." 

Dr  Reuss  shrugged,  and  took  him  home  in  a  taxicab,  to 
avoid  further  casualties. 

Great  days,  so  called,  are  much  like  others  when  they 
arrive.  Saturday  arrived,  shone  gloriously  like  the  preced- 
ing morning,  and  passed  unimpeded  into  evening  and  night. 
The  earnest,  impressionable  public  of  Munich  was  stirred 
to  its  depths  by  the  concert,  the  cheap  seats  especially  were 
notable  for  their  intense  silent  sympathy,  and  their  rapture 
of  applause:  the  two  crowned  heads  present  were — Reuss 
was  assured  of  it — most  pleasurably  affected;  but  for  An- 
toine, though  he  behaved  very  nicely,  and  took  immense 
pains  in  Beethoven  and  in  Bach  for  the  sake  of  the  great 
man  whose  guest  and  protege  he  was — the  excitement  of 
the  day  was  already  past.  And  if  any  wish  to  know  how 
this  could  happen  on  an  occasion,  obviously  portentous,  it 
is  necessary  to  explain  that  the  unfortunate  anti-climax  was 
the  fault  of  Frau  Carlotta  Lorbeer;  and  the  mistake  lay 
in  her  proposing  calmly,  at  an  early  hour  of  Saturday  morn- 
ing, by  the  mouth  of  Hans,  that  Antoine  should  drive  her 
daughter  and  herself  into  the  country,  in  Franz's  little  open 
car. 

"  Is  your  mother  mad  ?  "  inquired  Reuss  of  the  messenger 
Hans,  Antoine  having  already  projected  himself  like  a 
rocket  up  the  stairs. 

"  No,  uncle,"  said  Hans.  "  She  is  just  as  usual.  Yester- 
day," he  added,  "  she  had  a  headache." 

"  She  took  perhaps  some  imprudent  remedy,"  said  Fritz. 
"  Something  exciting." 


190  SUCCESSION 

Hans  shook  his  head.  "  She  told  us,"  he  explained,  "  that 
she  had  been  reading  too  much,  and  deserved  it.  My 
mother,"  he  added,  "  is  very  reasonable." 

"  She  is  not,"  explained  his  uncle,  "  in  this  instance.  It 
is  folly.    Are  you  going?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hans  rather  sadly.  "  Mother  reminds  me 
that  I  have  to  see  the  Schuhmachers  to-day.  The  driver  is 
to  accompany  them,  my  father  says." 

"Ha!"  said  Fritz.  "She  v^^ould  have  dispensed  with 
that,  would  she  ?  " 

"  She  says,"  says  Hans,  in  a  tone  discreetly  lowered, 
though  there  was  no  necessity,  "  that  unless  Antoine  could 
really  drive,  he  would  not  say  so.  My  father  seemed  to  have 
more  doubt." 

"  I  am  fervently  of  your  father's  opinion."  Fritz  put  his 
hands  behind  him  and  gazed  at  his  nephew,  who  gazed 
back.  "  Does  your  mother  recollect,"  he  said,  "  that  we 
have  engaged  to  present  our  guest  complete  this  evening  at 
the  Tonhalle?    I  mean,  not  a  part  of  him  only  ?  " 

"  You  are  jesting,  uncle,"  said  Hans,  and  smiled. 

"I  am  not.  She  may  have  forgotten  it  is  the  concert 
day." 

"  She  has  not,  I  think,"  said  Hans,  having  paused.  "  She 
intends  my  sister  to  go  to-night,  for  she  has  been  washing 
her  hair." 

"  That  is  good  evidence,"  admitted  Fritz.  "  You  will  go 
far  in  the  law,  Hans.    I  must  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favour." 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  said  Hans. 

"  Will  you  ask  your  mother,  if  quite  convenient,  to  come 
down  and  speak  to  me  while  Lotte's  hair  is  drying." 

Hans  retreated,  and  was  replaced  after  an  inten'al  by 
Carlotta,  not  at  all  demented  of  aspect,  and  dressed  already 
for  the  outing.  The  long  veil  of  silvery  gauze  wound  about 
her  head  and  shoulders,  suited  her  fair  face,  as  a  cloud 
might  suit  the  moon.  She  even  showed  the  pale  light  of  a 
smile  as  she  came  to  her  brother. 


HOLIDAYS  191 

"Have  you  made  your  will,  my  love?"  said  Fritz,  en- 
deavouring to  be  stern. 

"  He  is  so  happy,"  said  Carlotta,  "  the  little  darling.  It 
is  all  he  wants  in  life,  Friedrich,  to  be  both  free  and  trusted." 

"  And  what  of  Franz  and  myself,"  said  Fritz,  stroking 
his  beard.  "  Have  we  not  earned  your  ladyship's  trust  as 
well?" 

"  Franz  is  less  miserable  now,"  said  Carlotta,  and  smiled 
completely.  "  Dear  Fritz,  I  regard  you  also,  if  you  would 
believe  it.  See,  you  only  mean  the  boy  is  careless — do  you 
not? — and  nervous.  They  are  merely  words.  Shift  the 
connection  a  little,  and  they  have  no  sense.  Fle  is  not 
nervous  of  a  difficult  corner,  or  careless  with  women  behind 
him.  Transferred  to  the  road,  in  fact,  they  have  no  mean- 
ing." 

"  I  trust  they  will  not,"  said  Fritz,  biting  a  broad  finger. 
His  defences  were  collapsing  pitiably  as  usual,  and  his  argu- 
ments grew  wild.  "  Is  Franz,"  he  inquired,  "  to  marry 
again?    I  only  want  directions." 

"  My  directions  are,"  said  Carlotta,  "  that  Franz  lunch 
with  you.  Interest  him — you  can — and  he  will  not  think  of 
me  so  often." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Fritz.  "  Hans  is  already  disposed  of, 
eh?  I  imagined  it,  by  his  flattened  expression.  Say,  what 
of  Lottchen's  future,  if  her  nose  is  broken?" 

"  It  is  partly  for  Lottchen  that  I  do  it,"  said  his  sister 
undismayed.  "  If  she  had  shown  the  least  alarm,  I  should 
have  left  the  plan  and  said  no  more.  But  she  trusts  my 
judgment,  as  I  trust  his — and  she  is  much  interested  in  the 
picnic  basket." 

"  He  will  be  also,"  said  Fritz.    "  Where  do  you  go?  " 

Carlotta  told  him,  name  by  name,  as  she  fastened  her 
long  gloves.  He  could  not  but  approve  her  taste:  though 
the  choice  of  beautiful  roads  round  Munich  is  paralysing 
to  any  but  the  strong  of  will. 

"  We  shall  all  return  better  for  it,"  said  Carlotta,  "  you 
will  see." 


192  SUCCESSION 

"  Antoine's  back,"  began  Fritz  and  stopped.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  my  darling.  Yes,  yes,  two  hours  at  midday  will  be 
sufficient.  No,  I  do  not  value  kisses  when  my  will  is  scouted 
in  this  fashion — go." 

Carlotta  went;  and  the  party  started  at  the  hour  first 
arranged  ;  with  Lottchen  looking  charming,  her  clean,  glossy 
braids  veiled  in  blue,  as  her  mother's  were  in  grey,  and  an 
admirably  packed  basket,  on  which  her  eyes  were  anxiously 
fixed.  They  followed  a  twisting  way  among  the  wooded 
hills,  and  touched  at  a  lake-side  town  for  two  hours  at  mid- 
day; and  the  official  driver  was  not  used,  except  to  direct 
the  course  now  and  then  when  the  unofficial  driver  was  in 
doubt.  It  is  true  he  lectured  a  little  at  the  start,  and  helped 
Antoine  with  a  phrase  at  the  worst  turnings,  but  on  the 
whole,  he  had  a  very  pleasant  country  drive,  and  smoked — 
since  Antoine  suggested  it — a  number  of  cigarettes.  He 
offered  relief  coming  back,  once,  thinking  the  boy  looked 
white,  but  Antoine  intended  to  finish,  and  did. 

They  were  home  by  four  o'clock,  and  Frau  Lorbeer  ob- 
served, at  the  door  of  her  brother's  flat,  that  she  had  better 
say  good-night. 

"  Mother  is  not  coming  to  the  concert,"  said  Miss  Lotte 
in  unnecessary  elucidation. 

Antoine  took  Carlotta's  gloved  hand  rather  doubtfully, 
and  then  found  it  easier,  since  she  was  not  a  tall  prophetess 
like  her  sisters,  to  put  his  arms  round  her  neck.  Lottchen, 
who  had  never  seen  Hans  hug  her  mother,  was  a  little 
amazed  at  his  daring. 

"  The  first  day,"  she  observed  on  the  staircase,  "  he  kissed 
your  hand." 

"  He  was  probably  taught  that,"  said  Frau  Lorbeer,  "  in 
France.    It  is  a  habit  I  don't  care  for,  under  twenty  years." 

"Why  did  you  thank  him,  motherling?"  said  Lottchen, 
taking  her  arm. 

"Why  not?"  said  Frau  Lorbeer.  "He  drove  us  very 
well.    Why  did  he  thank  me,  is  the  question  you  should  ask." 


HOLIDAYS  193 

"He  enjoyed  our  expedition,"  said  the  girl  demurely. 
"  He  said  so  five  times  in  his  funny  way.  It  is  rare,"  she 
added,  as  they  reached  the  door,  "  to  see  the  mountains  so 
clear  in  September  as  they  were  this  afternoon." 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   PENALTY 

"  I  WILL  not  have  it,"  said  Dr  Friedrich  Anton  Reuss,  strik- 
ing the  breakfast-table  with  his  fist.  "  Tell  them  Monsieur 
Edgell  is  in  bed,  and  cannot  be  disturbed.  Sunday,  too,"  he 
growled.     "  It  is  intolerable.    Who  is  the  fellow  ?  " 

"  For  a  newspaper,  mein  Herr,"  said  the  puzzled  servant. 

"  Tell  him  to  go  to  the  devil — and  let  other  people  go  to 
church." 

"  He  asked  for  Monsieur  Edgell,  sir.  I  think  Adele  went 
to  see." 

"  A  plague  on  Adele,"  growled  Reuss,  and  turned  in  his 
sisters'  direction.  Clara  flew  with  all  the  haste  of  which 
she  was  capable.     It  was  a  little  time  before  she  returned. 

"  Too  late,"  she  informed  her  brother,  pausing  by  him. 
"  He  was  half  up,  and  quite  resigned.  I  tried  to  send  him 
back  to  bed  again,  for  he  is  not  half  rested." 

"How?    A  bad  night?" 

"  Wretched,  evidently.  What  is  to  be  done.  He  sent  a 
message  he  would  see  the  man,  and  clearly  intends  to  do 
so." 

"  Ugh !  "  said  Reuss.  "  I  fear  your  famed  Adele  is  a 
fool."  He  heaved  himself  up  and  went  to  the  hall.  A  red- 
faced,  pompous-looking  man  stood  there,  who  bowed  low 
at  the  sight  of  him. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  adding  all  Reuss's  titles 
in  a  string. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Fritz. 
194 


THE   PENALTY  195 

He  was,  it  appeared,  the  Kritischer  Kunstblatt  (or  some- 
thing of  the  sort). 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

He  wanted  M.  Antoine  Edgell — a  personal  interview.  He 
would  not  keep  him  five  minutes.  He  was  horrified  at  the 
idea  of  disturbing  the  honoured  etcetera  family. 

It  was  M.  Antoine  Edgell  he  should  be  horrified  at  dis- 
turbing. He,  Reuss,  would  tell  the  Kunstblatt  all  there  was 
to  know  about  that  gentleman, 

"  Admirable."  The  stranger  beamed  and  bowed.  With 
then  five  minutes  from  the  young  man  himself,  he  would  be 
more  than  satisfied. 

''  I  should  be  less  than  satisfied,"  roared  Reuss.  "  The 
child  is  tired,  and  cannot  see  you." 

"  Yet  I  have  his  message,"  said  the  Kunstblatt  sweetly. 

"  I  withdraw  it,"  said  Reuss.    "  He  does  as  I  tell  him." 

The  Kunstblatt  extended  a  scrap  of  paper.  "  Dans  10 
minutes,  faites  attendre.  A.  Edgell."  It  was  scrawled  quite 
clearly.  Reuss  frowned  at  it  a  second.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said 
briefly;  and  leaving  the  smiling  Kunstblatt  on  a  chair,  he 
went  to  Antoine's  room. 

"  See,  my  love,"  he  said,  with  decision.  "  This  is  gro- 
tesque. Give  me  a  word  to  kick  him  out.  My  boots  are 
very  big." 

"  If  he  will  wait  a  little,"  murmured  Antoine.  He  was 
sitting  still  half  clad  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  shivering  and 
looking  his  very  worst.  The  faint  blue  circles  of  a  sleepless 
night  were  marked  round  his  eyes,  as  he  turned  them  to 
Reuss.    His  friend  came  to  his  side. 

"What  is  this?"  he  demanded.  "When  did  this  oc- 
cur?" 

"  Early  in  the  morning — it  does  sometimes.  Fritz,  can 
he  come  here?  I  do  not  want  to  walk  just  yet — it  is  my 
head." 

"  You  shall  not  move,"  swore  Reuss.  "  Get  back  to  bed 
immediately." 

"  No!  "  said  Antoine.    "  I  am  very  well  here,  if  you  give 


196  SUCCESSION 

me  my  coat.  It  is  only  for  five  minutes,  and  I  always  say 
the  same  things.  You  can  tell  him,  this  is  how  we  do  in 
France."    He  made  an  effort  to  smile. 

"  You  think  I  shall  show  you  to  a  reporter  like  this  ?  " 

"Does  it  look  wrong?  It  will  be  better  soon.  I  said 
ten  minutes."  Still  sitting,  he  extracted  Reuss's  great  gold 
watch.  It  was  as  though  his  languid  fingers  could  hardly 
wield  it.    As  he  looked  at  the  face  of  it,  Fritz  studied  his. 

"  Sick,  is  it?  "  he  said.    Antoine  nodded  and  shrugged. 

"  It  comes  that  way,"  he  said,  as  he  put  the  watch  away. 
"  But  he  cannot  see  inside  me,  so  it  will  not  matter."  He 
rested  his  brow  upon  his  hands. 

"  I  think  you  need  a  lesson,"  said  Reuss,  caressing  his 
beard,  "  as  well  as  he.  And  I  think  I  shall  give  it  to  both, 
Sunday  morning  or  not.  Keep  very  still,  my  dear."  With 
strength  there  was  no  resisting,  he  pinioned  both  arms,  and 
unfastened  and  drew  off  his  clothes,  without  letting  him 
make  one  unnecessary  movement.  It  was  all  so  neatly, 
quickly  and  powerfully  done,  on  an  almost  helpless  subject, 
that  it  would  have  been  comic  to  a  spectator — much  like 
using  an  engine  to  drive  in  a  nail.  Lastly,  Reuss  lifted  him 
completely  up  in  his  arms,  kicked  the  bed-coverings  aside, 
and  laid  him  down  with  delicate  precision,  as  though  he  had 
been  made  of  wax.  Then  he  seized  the  down  quilt,  and 
enveloped  him  from  chin  to  feet.  "  That  is  my  good  child," 
he  said,  putting  one  big  hand  across  his  eyes.  "  Shut  them 
up,  and  when  I  have  slain  that  fat  brigand  below,  I  will 
return." 

"  Come,"  Antoine  murmured.     "  Not  she." 

"  You  are  not  to  go,  Clara,"  said  Fritz,  looking  into  the 
breakfast-room. 

"Why?"  she  demanded. 

"  Because  he  cannot  be  polite  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  is 
sick  and  wretched.  Go  to  church  all,  and  leave  us.  I  have 
business  and  he  shall  sleep." 

Then  he  went  to  the  Kunstblatt. 

"  One  of  Monsieur  Edgell's  peculiarities,"  he  said,  "  is 


THE   PENALTY  197 

an  amiability  which  is  commonly  and  widely  abused.  Will 
you  take  a  note  of  that  ?  He  is  also  a  devout  Catholic,  and 
that  Church  forbids  a  Sunday  interview." 

The  Kunstblatt  gasped,    "■  I  had  his  word " 

"  He  had  forgotten  the  day  when  he  sent  it ;  being  awak- 
ened rather  suddenly  out  of  sleep  he  was  much  in  need  of." 

"  I  regret " 

"  Well,"  said  Reuss,  cheerfully  rude.  "  Do  a  little  regret- 
ting.    It  will  hurt  nobody." 

"  The  honourable  Doctor's  character  is  known,"  said  the 
man,  smiling. 

"  Fortunately,"  said  Reuss.  "  And  his  will  be  unknown 
till  to-morrow,  which  is  your  misfortune." 

"  You  have  known  him  long?  "  the  Kunstblatt  insinuated. 

"  Since  he  was  eight.  He  is  now  just  fifteen.  A  trifle 
of  arithmetic  will  give  you  the  number." 

"  Seven  years,"  noted  the  Kunstblatt  gravely.  "  He  is 
of  humble  origin,  we  hear," 

"  An  origin  to  speak  of  humbly,"  snapped  Reuss. 
*'  Charles  Lemaure,  whose  work  he  played  last  night,  is  his 
mother's  father;  and  Lemaure  was  Jacob's  favourite  pupil, 
and  has  been  decorated  by  his  compatriots,  and  holds  two 
foreign  doctorates  and  the  Imperial  order  of  merit.  Possi- 
bly it  was  not  in  your  time  that  he  was  famous  in  Berlin." 

"  Your  pardon,  sir."  The  man  was  busy  scribbling. 
"Anton  is  your  godson?" 

"  No,"  said  Reuss.  "  His  name  is  not  Anton  either,  but 
Antoine,  and  his  family  name  is  English.  He  came  out  in 
England." 

"  The  same  season,  I  believe,  as  Lemonski.  How  does 
he  stand,  in  his  honour's  opinion,  with  regard  to  Lemonski?  " 

"  Will  you  give  it  as  my  opinion,"  said  Reuss,  "  or  your 
own  ?  " 

"  I  can  conceal  the  authority,"  said  the  Kunstblatt. 

"  Be  sure  you  do,  then.  How  he  stands  to  Lemonski  is 
head  and  shoulders  above  him.  For  people  of  taste,  there 
is  no  second  opinion." 


198  SUCCESSION 

"  Lemonski  was  trained  by  Moricz,  I  believe." 

"  This  gentleman  has  also  passed  Moricz,  and  holds  the 
first-class  testimonial."  A  close  eye  could  have  detected 
Fritz's  evil  triumph  in  this  announcement. 

"  Ah — er — I  was  misinformed.  Then  their  schools  are 
similar — their  style?" 

"  I  leave  it  to  the  critics  to  judge,"  said  Reuss.  "  They 
like  quarrelling  over  such  things.    Now — will  that  do  ?  " 

"  Pardon.  The  noble  Doctor  mentioned  his  character — 
his  tastes." 

"  His  tastes  are  those  of  any  clever  schoolboy ;  and  his 
manners,  as  you  have  seen,  very  good.  A  German  would 
have  sent  you  to  the  devil,  as  I  did."  Reuss  himself  rep- 
resented his  art  in  a  strong  paper,  and  knew  that  he  was 
safe. 

"  His  health?"  ventured  the  Kunstblatt. 

"  His  health  is  not  rude,  but  sufficient."  Fritz  looked  at 
the  door. 

"  He  is  a  wit,  they  say,"  said  the  Kunstblatt.  "  If  the 
Doctor  would  give  us  a  '  mot.'  " 

"  Ah — no,"  said  Reuss,  taken  off  his  guard.  "  Nothing 
he  says  bears  translating  or  repeating." 

"  The  noble  Doctor  is  devoted  to  him,"  said  the  Kunst- 
blatt serenely. 

"And  what  if  I  am?"  growled  Reuss.  "  It  is  no  affair^ 
of  yours,  or  your  paper's." 

"  Pardon,  mein  Herr.    We  are  infinitely  obliged  for  your 
unequalled  graciousness.    You  said  Monsieur  Edgell's  char-  ? 
acter  was  unfortunately  unknown  to  us.     Why  unfortu- 
nately?" 

"  I  leave  you  to  discover,  if  you  can,"  said  Reuss  crossly. 
"  I  have  finished." 

"  They  say  he  cannot  live,"  said  the  Kunstblatt,  his  eyes 
not  quitting  his  notes.  The  great  Reuss  was  perfectly 
silent  and  stolid,  his  hands  behind  him.  The  man  glanced 
at  him  once,  and  rose.    "  Pardon,"  said  he  once  more.    "  A 


THE    PENALTY  199 

thousand  thanks,  Excellency.     Eleven  o'clock  to-morrow? 
Good."    And  he  fumbled  his  way  out, 

Reuss,  after  standing  like  a  statue  for  five  minutes,  went 
back  to  his  charge.  He  stood  beside  him  a  moment  or  two, 
watching  statue-like  again,  before  he  spoke.  Then,  see- 
ing the  boy's  eyes  open : 

"  Eleven  to-morrow,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Yes.    Did  you  say  I  was  sorry  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Fritz. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you."  Antoine  moved  restlessly. 
"  Fritz,  I  had  better  go  home,  hein?"  he  said, 

"  As  you  will."  Fritz  bent  lower,  and  looked  with  new 
attention.     "  Art  thou  warmer  now,  a  little  ?  " 

"  A  little,  yes.     This  thing  is  very  warm." 

"  Thou  canst  not  go  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  No.  But  go  up  to  Herr  Lorbeer,  and  do  your  things." 
He  extended  a  hand,  the  touch  of  it  chill  in  spite  of  the 
warm  coverings, 

"  How,"  said  Fritz,  warming  the  hand  between  two 
cushioned  paws,  "  didst  thou  feel  at  five  this  morning?  " 

"  How?  I  don't  know.  It  is  all  stupid — a  dead  feeling. 
I  do  not  mind  anything  when  I  am  like  that." 

"  Did  you  know  it  was  coming  before  you  went  to  bed?  " 

"  When  those  people  went — I  was  rather  tired."  He 
licked  his  stiff  lips,  and  turned  his  eyes  sidelong,  as  if 
pinioned.     "It  is  a  pity,  hein?"  he  said, 

"  It  is  piteous,"  said  Reuss.  "  See,  we  are  friends,  my 
little  one.  Would  you  rather  I  left  you,  or  stayed  ?  No  one 
else  is  at  home." 

"  I  had  rather  be  alone.    I  know  just  how  it  will  be." 

"When  shall  I  come  back,  then?" 

"  In  an  hour.  I  should  like  you  in  an  hour."  The  side- 
long eyes  were  on  him. 

"  There  is  nothing  you  want?    A  little  brandy?  " 

"  Not  while  I  am  so  sick." 


200  SUCCESSION 

Fritz  had  turned  to  the  door  in  despair,  when  he  again 
heard  his  name. 

"You  spoke,  darling?" 

"  Yes.  Some  water — something  to  drink." 

"  You  shall  have  it.  Wait  a  few  instants."  His  sisters 
were  out,  and  the  blowsy  Adele  alone  upon  the  scene.  So 
he  went  up  to  the  Lorbeer  kitchen,  and  applied  to  the  house- 
wife he  knew  he  should  find  in  charge. 

"  Shall  I  send  Lottchen?"  asked  his  sister,  whose  atten- 
tion was  divided  between  the  clock,  and  a  seething  pan  upon 
the  stove. 

"  No.    He  will  have  nobody,  and  asks  nothing  but  this." 

Not  more  than  five  minutes  after  he  had  left  Antoine's 
room,  he  returned  to  it  with  a  Venetian  glass  of  iced  min- 
eral water.  But  though  he  used  it  instantly,  it  was  not  for 
the  original  purpose,  for  the  boy  had  fainted. 

It  was  a  prolonged  swoon,  utterly  stupefying  to  Reuss. 
He  telephoned  for  help  to  the  floor  above,  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay,  but  Frau  Lorbeer,  who  left  her  cooking  reck- 
lessly to  spoil,  and  flew  down  to  his  assistance,  could  do 
nothing  either  for  a  long  period.  She  drove  Fritz  out,  and 
laid  the  boy  in  a  hot  bath,  using  every  effort  known  to  her 
wisdom  for  restoring  circulation,  until  the  doctor  came. 
When  at  last  one  arrived,  Antoine  had  at  least  partially  re- 
covered his  faculties. 

Dr  Franck  came  to  Reuss,  where  he  sat  with  his  head  on 
his  hand  in  the  study.  This  doctor  was  both  a  musician 
and  an  acquaintance,  and  Fritz's  look  distressed  him. 

"  It  is  the  little  virtuoso?  "  he  said  at  once,  when  he  had 
asked  the  patient's  name.  "  I  had  guessed  it.  Do  not  be 
too  anxious,  sir.  There  is  no  reason,  I  hope,  for  such 
alarming  symptoms  to  recur.  He  was  much  over-tired  last 
night  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  seemed  happy,  and  did  everything 
easily  to  all  appearance." 


THE   PENALTY  201 

"  Doubtless ;  indeed,  I  was  there.  Do  you  know  how  the 
crisis  occurred?     He  could  not  speak  just  now." 

Reuss  told  what  he  knew.    The  doctor  listened  closely. 

"  He  has  had  the  weakness  for  some  time,  then.  Who  is 
his  doctor?  " 

Reuss  gave  the  names  of  two  in  Paris.  Franck  bowed, 
for  both  were  known.  "  I  will  wire  for  information  to 
Savigny,"  he  said.  "  I  have  his  address,  for  I  take  his 
review.  Monsieur  Antoine  has  nothing  else  before  him 
here — public  work,  I  mean?" 

"  No.    We  hoped  to  keep  him  a  week,  to  rest  him." 

"  You  anticipated  the  possibility  of  ill  effects,  then  ?  " 

"  One  must  anticipate  all,  knowing  him  delicate.  It  is 
impossible  to  be  too  careful,"  said  Reuss. 

"  Humph,"  said  the  doctor,  whose  private  opinion  was 
that  somebody  had  been  grossly  careless.  He  considered 
a  moment.  "  You  are  in  charge,  Herr  Reuss  ?  You  can  act 
for  the  guardians  absolutely,  about  the  boy?  Profession- 
ally and  privately — that  is  good.     What  about  the  press?" 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  be  careful.  Nothing  must  get  about : 
it  would  damage  him.  He  has  appointments  with  two  papers 
for  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Humph.  Change  to  the  evening  and  he  might  do  it. 
It  is  a  question  of  his  nerve,  chiefly.  Are  you  writing  to 
his  home  ?  " 

"  I  have  written — and  telegraphed — ^triumph." 

The  doctor  paused.  "  Well,  leave  it  so.  I  take  it  on 
myself  to  restore  him,  to  many  triumphs  yet,  I  hope.  Does 
Savigny  know  his  people?" 

"  They  are  old  friends." 

"  Excellent."  Franck  glanced  at  his  watch.  "  Will  you 
have  me  to  lunch? — I  thank  you,"  And  he  turned  back 
again  to  the  boy's  room. 

Antoine  was  lying  not  on  the  bed,  for  he  had  managed  to 
struggle  out  before  he  dropped,  but  on  the  low  couch  under 
the  window,  supported  by  Frau  Lorbeer's  strong,  kind  arm. 
His  colour  had  come  back  a  trifle,  and  his  brow  was  knit 


202  SUCCESSION 

under  the  hair  still  wet  with  its  drenching.  The  room  was 
full  of  smoke  from  a  wood  fire  hastily  lighted,  and  a  widely 
opened  window.  A  faint  cheering  clatter  and  bustle  of  holi- 
day arose  from  the  street  beneath. 

"  He  is  better,"  said  Carlotta,  lifting  her  clear  eyes.  "  He 
has  spoken  to  me." 

"  Good,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Perhaps  he  will  speak  to  me 
as  well.    No  hurry  at  all.    Does  he  understand  German  ?  " 

Antoine  answered  for  himself. 

"  Easily,  I  mean,  of  course.  Then  I  shall  talk  it,  for  my 
French  would  put  your  nerves  on  edge."  The  doctor  laid 
two  fingers  on  his  wrist  and  waited.  "  Do  you  remember 
what  happened?"  he  said.  "Yes?  In  the  night  for  in- 
stance? Did  you  sleep  soon?  No?  Did  you  dream? 
Good  dreams  ?  " 

Here  the  simple  answers  would  not  serve,  and  the  patient 
strove  to  explain.  The  dreams  were  all  good  at  first,  ow- 
ing to  his  happiness  and  the  mountains  he  had  seen.  Then 
one  "  horrible  "  dream  at  dawn — great  anguish  of  mind — 
Franck  judged  from  his  expression — and  "  his  heart  was 
wrong." 

"That  is  your  theory,  is  it?"  The  doctor  studied  the 
lines  of  his  face,  and  wished  he  would  lift  his  eyes ;  but  he 
seemed  too  languid.  He  waited  a  little,  to  give  him  a  rest. 
Articulation  and  comprehension  were  evidently  a  pain,  for 
supreme  languor  weighed  on  lips  and  brain  alike.  Franck 
rather  cursed  his  ignorance  of  the  language  that  would 
have  been  easy  to  him.  He  found  himself  consciously  curb-  . 
ing  an  overwhelming  curiosity  and  the  desire  to  ask  more 
and  subtler  questions  than  the  patient's  powers  in  their  pres- 
ent state  could  cope  with.  He  was  certain  by  the  shape  of 
his  head  that  he  was  a  clever  boy,  though  the  evidence  of 
the  eyes  was  lacking. 

"  Would  you  like  to  try  French  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No.    It  is  all  right." 

"Your  head  is  not  aching?" 

"  No.    I  did  not  fall." 


THE    PENALTY  203 

"  Ah !    You  have  fainted  before,  have  you?  " 

"  Once  I  did — in  Paris.  I  hurt  my  chin  on  the  table." 
His  hand  moved  as  though  to  show  the  place.  "  The  bonne 
caught  me;  but  my  head  hurt  for  a  long  time.  To-day  is 
better.  I  am  very  well."  At  last  he  lifted  his  eyes,  with 
their  shadowed  frames,  to  Franck's  face.  "  Wasn't  it  curi- 
ous," he  said,,  "  when  I  was  doing  nothing?  Herr  Reuss 
had  done  my  man  for  me,  you  see.  He  told  me  to  be  quiet, 
and  I  was  trying " 

"  Could  you  not  be  quiet  ?  " 

"  There  were  noises  in  my  head," 

"  Music  ?  " 

"  Some  music,  but — interrupted."  He  did  not  seem  to 
have  found  the  word,  and  his  brow  knit  up  again. 

"  Do  you  write  music  ?  "  said  Franck,  after  another  pause. 
His  tone  was  easy  and  friendly,  and,  unlike  most  doctors, 
he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go. 

"  I  have  written  some.  .  .  .  You  know  about  that  ?  " 
Antoine  queried. 

"  I  was  at  the  hall  last  night." 

"  Oh  yes."  A  pause.  "  I  never  expect,"  Antoine  con- 
fided to  Frau  Lorbeer,  "  how  everyone  has  music  here.  I 
suppose  if  I  stayed  long  in  Munchen,  I  should." 

"  Would  you  like  to  stay  ?  "  said  the  inquisitive  doctor. 

"  Yes.    But  I  think  I  shall  have  to  go  to  my  grandfather." 

"  Your  grandfather  need  not  know  of  your  illness  till  you 
return,  unless  you  think  it  right  to  tell  him." 

"You  do  not  think  it  right?" 

"  I  shall  tell  your  doctor,  whom  I  know  by  repute." 

"  You  mean  Raymond  Savigny  ?  Only  he  will  tell  grand- 
papa, I  think."  The  boy  waited  a  moment,  frowning. 
"  Would  it  be  better,"  he  said  painfully,  "  if  I  told  Savigny 
myself?  I  mean — if  you  wrote  what  I  said — just  a  few 
things,  to  show  him." 

"  No,  my  dear.     I  do  not  want  you  to  make  the  effort." 

"  I  remember  very  well — when  I  think." 


204  SUCCESSION 

"  Just  so.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  think  about  it.  It  is  not " 
— he  smiled — "  the  role  of  the  patient." 

"  No,"  He  submitted  again,  and  shifted  his  position  a 
trifle,  moistening  his  lips.  Frau  Lorbeer  moved  her  clever 
arm  to  the  right  angle  of  support  exactly,  and  gave  him  a 
little  water  without  his  asking  for  it.  Her  own  silence 
had  been  unbroken,  and  might  have  been  a  hint  to  the  talka- 
tive doctor,  but  that  silence  has  so  many  interpretations. 
Franck  ignored  her  possibly ;  Antoine,  feeling  her  arm,  did 
not. 

"  Can  you  really  stay  here?  "  he  asked  her  suddenly. 

"  Yes ;  as  long  as  I  am  wanted." 

"  Of  course  I  want  you,  when  you  are  so  kind."  He 
turned  back  to  Franck.  "  Tell  me  what  is  my  role,"  he  said, 
in  his  slow,  exhausted  tone. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling,  "  the  part  is  passive. 
You  have  acted  enough  for  the  present.  Let  the  reporters 
talk  about  you,  and  Reuss  write  your  letters,  and  this  lady 
feed  you  and  put  you  into  bed,  and  M.  Savigny  come  or  not 
as  he  chooses." 

"  Comer    Oh,  but  he  can't." 

"  Leave  that  to  him.    I  do  not  say  he  will." 

"  You  will  write  to-day?" 

"  I  telegraph." 

"Telegraph?  But  how?  All  that?"  He  turned  his 
eyes,  in  a  kind  of  distress,  to  Carlotta,  and  she  broke  silence 
for  the  second  time. 

"  You  must  leave  everything  to  us,  dear  child,"  she  said 
clearly  and  firmly.    "  It  is  the  only  way." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But — Savigny  will  be  very  angry.  I 
know  how  he  looks  when  long  telegrams  come  from  abroad. 
He  is — he  is  a  curious,  impatient  man." 

The  doctor  rose,  accepting  the  suggestion  at  last  to  do  so. 
"  I  risk  enraging  him,"  he  said.  "  A  doctor  may  annoy  a 
doctor  when  a  patient  may  not.  Good-morning,  my  little 
musician.    You  have  been  helpful." 


THE    PENALTY  205 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Antoinc,  relieved  that  no  more  was 
required. 

"  Not  good-bye;  I  shall  come  back  to-night."  He  turned 
to  Frau  Lorbeer.    "  Shall  I  send  you  any  assistance  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Carlotta.  "  We  are  stocked  with 
women  here.  My  daughter  above  there  could  manage  two 
households  if  necessary." 

"  Excellent,"  said  Franck  hastily.  "  I  could  wish  for 
nothing  better  for  him."  And  he  departed  with  no  further 
directions  to  the  nurse. 

"  He  was  very  kind,"  observed  Antoine,  after  a  long  in- 
terval, during  which  he  had  almost  imagined  himself  alone, 
she  sat  so  motionless. 

"  Unnecessarily,"  said  Frau  Lorbeer.  "  You  need  not 
make  his  excuses  to  me.  No — be  quiet."  And  she  kissed 
him. 

There  ensued,  after  the  strain  of  the  medical  interview, 
a  "  horrible  "  period,  during  which  Antoine  relapsed.  There 
w  as  no  further  disguising  from  himself  the  fact  that  he  was 
ill,  and  though  he  had  hardly  life  enough  to  be  actively  ter- 
rified, the  conviction  was  numbing.  He  dropped  from  stage 
to  stage,  each  more  hopeless  than  the  last,  into  dark  cold 
places,  through  which  he  groped  unhappily,  as  things  grope 
in  ocean  depths  where  no  ray  of  earth  can  penetrate.  He 
wondered  at  intervals  if  he  were  alive,  and  if  so,  why; 
for  living  no  longer  attracted  him  at  all,  and  living  people 
he  had  loved  became  mere  shades,  harassing  him  only  with 
memories.  Occasionally — a  change  he  did  not  welcome — 
he  was  made  aware  of  life  by  an  inner  demon  of  pain,  which 
clawed  at  him,  grasped  all  the  threads  of  his  brain,  and 
pulled  gently,  teasing.  Occasionally — he  resented  it  only  a 
little  less — hands  lifted  him  to  the  surface,  strong  warm 
hands,  and  he  became  aware  of  Carlotta,  who  had  no 
scruple  in  interrupting  his  thoughts,  to  wash  him,  or  feed 
him,  or  even  now  and  then  to  speak.  Now,  Antoine  had  no 
desire  for  food — naturally,  since  he  wished  to  die ;  but  his 


2o6  SUCCESSION 

antagonist  was  insidious  as  she  was  strong,  and  it  was  gen- 
erally too  much  trouble  to  resist  her  ruses.  He  listened  to 
her  voice  with  vague  approval,  and  occasionally  gave  her  a 
word  in  answer  for  civility's  sake.  Nor  did  he  refuse  to  look 
at  her,  since  she  was  in  the  line  of  vision  and  he  could  not 
move;  but  he  did  not  always  trouble  to  realise  what  he 
watched. 

During  the  first  and  worst  day,  Carlotta  grew  almost  to 
dread  his  gaze,  which  followed  her  about  the  room,  or  rested 
on  her  as  she  sat  beneath  the  light  in  her  high-backed  chair, 
setting  stitches  in  dainty  trifles  for  her  daughter's  wear, 
things  like  snowflakes  which  fluttered  from  her  pretty  hands. 
His  dark  eyes,  lowered  rarely,  but  never  closing,  had  an 
effect  upon  her  which  she  had  to  work  consciously  and 
constantly  to  throw  off.  Such  weariness,  indifference,  pas- 
sive disdain  had  never  met  her  view  before,  reflected  in 
young  eyes.  They  seemed  to  grow  more  hollow,  too,  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  his  pallor  to  grow  greyer  and  more  un- 
earthly. Especially  during  the  first  night  she  spent  by  him, 
she  was  haunted  by  the  impression  that,  for  want  of  some- 
thing she  failed  to  find,  his  hold  on  life  was  slipping;  and 
that  unless  she  tracked  and  followed  constantly,  with  all 
the  energy  of  her  will  and  brain,  he  would  move  from  her 
into  some  retreat  of  his  own,  where  human  love  and  aid 
could  no  longer  reach  him. 

Some  of  these  impressions  she  confided  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  second  day  to  her  brother,  together  with  such  theories 
of  any  profit  as  she  had  been  able  to  extract  from  Franck. 
The  doctor  had  shown  visible  embarrassment  and  per- 
plexity that  morning,  during  his  short  and  almost  silent 
visits,  and  his  manner  to  the  nurse  showed  that  he  counted 
principally  upon  her.  Used  as  she  was  to  being  counted 
upon,  Carlotta  felt  in  this  instance  overburdened. 

"  He  speaks  of  shock,"  she  said,  "  as  usual.  He  says 
shocks  with  such  natures  are  hard  to  trace;  that  he  might 
have  thrown  it  off  in  the  press  of  active  and  other  interests, 


THE    PENALTY  207 

and  it  recoils  on  him  now  at  low  ebb.  I  give  you  that  for 
what  it  is  worth." 

"  Did  he  inquire  into  history  ?  "  said  Reuss,  having  pon- 
dered a  little. 

"  Pie  asked,  had  he  suffered  in  the  same  way  before.  I 
said  he  had  once,  but  that  his  high  spirits  are  normal.  I 
quoted  your  phrase,  that  he  had  scrambled  to  fame  in  nine 
months,  with  apparent  ease,  and  little  aid  but  his  own.  And 
that  he  seemed  to  love  the  work — though,  of  course,  I  did 
not  answer  for  that." 

"  Have  you  doubts?  "  said  Reuss,  with  the  smile  the  fam- 
ily accorded  to  Carlotta  on  the  subject. 

"  I  did  not  trouble  him  with  my  opinion,"  she  said  drily. 
"  Work,  as  such,  is  prescribed  for  the  case,  I  gather." 

Fritz  smiled  still.  "  It  would  take  all  your  wit  to  pre- 
vent him  working.  But  you  are  right.  Both  Charles  and 
the  French  doctor  incline  to  that  theory.  .  .  .  Leave 
theorising  now,  and  assist  me.  What  am  I  to  say  to  these?  " 
He  signed  to  the  letters  spread  upon  the  table.  "  This  above 
all  ?  "  He  tapped  the  one  under  his  eyes,  crumpling  his 
beard  with  one  powerful  hand. 

Carlotta  leant  over  him  to  read,  drawing  his  head  to  her, 
for  he  was  weary  and  worried  extremely,  by  the  extra  toil 
and  responsibility,  as  she  knew  from  his  manner  without 
inquiry.  Having  deciphered  the  short  scrawl  on  a  thick 
sheet,  signed  by  a  single  name  that,  being  illegible,  had  to 
be  guessed,  she  looked  down  and  met  her  brother's  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  my  fairy — what  advice?  " 

"  It  is  really  singular,"  she  said.  "  How  does  he  manage 
it?    Are  they  both  there,  then?  " 

"  They  are  there,"  said  Reuss.  "  And  she  was  at  the  con- 
cert." 

"  How  can  I  advise?  You  are  more  used  to  courts  than 
I.  You  must  attend  in  person,  surely,  since  she  writes. 
Do  you  know  her?" 

"A  little.    What  shall  I  say?" 

"Why  not  the  truth,  to  a  woman?     The  letter  is  very 


2o8  SUCCESSION 

kind.  She  even  asks  if  he  was  tired,  so  she  must  have 
noticed  something." 

"  I  noticed  nothing,"  Reuss  murmured,  "  and  I  was  near- 
est. That  last  time  he  looked  up — brilliance  itself — a  little 
alarm  at  the  extent  of  his  triumph,  while  he  gave  me  his 
hand.  They  had  been  so  quiet — good  is  his  word,  is  it  not? 
— that  he  had  not  expected  such  a  noise  from  them.  He 
would  not,  of  course.  Well " — he  moved  his  chair — "  I 
suppose  I  must  go  to  her  Serenity,  empty-handed.  What  a 
chance  missed,  my  little  sister.    Think  of  Lucien !  " 

"  I  am  taking  this,"  she  observed,  sliding  a  hand  upon  the 
royal  letter.  "  It  will  amuse  Monsieur  in  time — when  he 
can  attend  to  such  trivial  matters.  You  trust  me,  do  you 
not  ?  " 

"  Since  I  must,"  he  replied,  and  went,  looking  lighter  a 
little  for  the  interview. 

Carlotta,  who  never  left  her  guard  for  more  than  ten  min- 
utes, returned  to  the  patient's  room,  where  her  practised  eye 
discovered  changes. 

In  the  interval  the  hidden  demon  had  attacked  Antoine, 
in  a  cowardly  fashion  it  had,  at  a  moment  when  he  felt 
weak.  Having  tried,  without  much  hope,  to  master  it  d  la 
Savigny,  he  had  given  up  the  effort  suddenly,  torn  himself 
up,  beaten  the  unoffending  bed,  and  twisted  all  the  blankets 
into  an  ill-tempered  heap.  Then,  having  gained  nothing 
by  the  exhausting  proceeding,  and  feeling  entirely  miserable, 
he  lay  among  the  wreck  and  cried.  When  his  nurse  re- 
entered, he  tried  to  conceal  his  misdeeds,  and  especially  the 
last,  by  unnatural  and  rigid  immobility.  It  was  fruitless,  of 
course,  considering  that  quality  of  universal  observation  he 
had  first  noticed  in  her,  while  she  sat  silent  among  the 
family  by  the  porcelain  stove.  She  approached  at  once  to 
rearrange  the  bed,  which  she  did  without  a  word,  seeming  to 
make  nothing  of  its  complicated  disarray.  Then,  still  quite 
at  leisure,  she  took  the  patient  by  the  arms. 


THE    PENALTY  209 

"  Is  that  better  ?  "  she  said,  most  deceptive  softness  in 
her  tone. 

Antoine  assured  her  it  was,  keeping  his  lashes  lowered, 
to  conceal  the  traces  of  the  storm.  He  felt  convinced  a 
German  lady  could  not  approve  of  that,  necessary  as  it  had 
been.    He  used  her  own  tongue  to  thank  her  carefully. 

"  You  are  in  pain  ?  Have  been  for  some  time  ?  "  He 
nodded,  making  a  faint  effort  to  draw  his  wrists  away. 

"  Well,"  she  proceeded,  "  why  did  you  not  ring,  if  you 
wanted  me  ?  Here  is  the  bell  at  hand."  Antoine  looked  side- 
long at  the  bell.  It  was  there,  certainly,  but  such  a  use  for  it 
had  not  struck  him.  Even  to  summon  servants,  the  thing 
was  not  used  in  his  home ;  and  to  summon  one's  host's  sister 

Added  to  this,  he  had  not  been  aware  of  wanting 

Frau  Lorbeer,  only  one  could  not  exactly  tell  her  that. 

"  I  cried,"  he  observed,  after  consideration,  abandoning 
concealment. 

"  So  I  see,"  she  said  calmly,  "  Crying  out  is  simpler, 
when  people  are  there  to  help  you.  You  have  no  idea  at 
all,  I  may  tell  you,  how  to  be  ill.  Will  you  promise  me  to 
complain  next  time?  " 

He  promised  nothing,  in  words.  He  only  frowned,  a 
trifle  dazed,  watching  the  light  play  on  her  gold  chain,  a 
pretty  thing,  and  the  nearest  object  as  she  bent  to  him. 
Carlotta  thought  he  looked  an  absurd  baby,  lying  helpless 
under  her  hands  like  that ;  but  she  saw  the  lines  of  late 
suffering  very  well. 

"  Tell  me  where  it  is,"  she  said,  her  clear  tone  modulating 
sweetly.  "You  cannot,  darling?  Show  me  then."  He 
tried  to  do  so,  his  lifted  hand  a  little  vague. 

"  Here?  "  Carlotta  freed  his  arms,  and  clasped  his  head. 
"  Well,  that  is  nothing  uncommon ;  I  have  had  that  myself. 
I  know  twenty  ways  to  cure  it,  and  if  those  fail,  we  will 
try  a  twenty-first.  Only  you  must  be  with  me,  not  against, 
do  you  hear?  I  will  not  be  thanked,  and  despised,"  said 
Carlotta. 

"  But  I  do  not,"  he  said ;  and  a  gleam  of  mirth  came  to 


2IO  SUCCESSION 

the  surface,  working  its  way  up  through  all  the  layers  of 
oppression  and  indifference.  It  was  ridiculous  even  to 
think  of  despising  a  person  who  so  handled  him,  who  spoke 
so  oddly,  and  looked  so  cordially  sweet.  Even  the  way  the 
little  gold  chain  shone  among  the  lace,  glinting  here  and 
there  in  the  afternoon  sun,  as  she  delivered  her  views  as  to 
the  "  role  "  of  patients,  and  knocked  the  pillows  about,  was 
fascinating  to  his  tired  mind.  He  did  not  mind  such  as 
Carlotta  assisting  him  to  be  ill,  if  they  wished;  and  as  to 
method,  since  it  was  really  too  much  trouble  to  remember 
Savigny  at  this  distance,  she  must  have  her  way. 

She  continued  during  day  and  night  to  reawaken  his 
surprise  and  attention  at  intervals,  when  she  thought  he 
could  bear  it ;  sufficiently  at  least,  from  his  point  of  view, 
to  make  it  worth  remaining  alive  to  watch  her  proceedings. 
The  novelty  of  her  attracted  him,  evidently ;  in  the  full  tide 
of  his  life,  he  might  have  called  her  amusing.  Somewhere 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  second  endless  night,  since  he 
still  could  not  sleep,  she  produced  a  book  and  proposed  to 
read  it  to  him.  Antoine  had  no  objection  to  Frau  Lorbeer's 
pursuing  her  studies  aloud  if  she  chose,  especially  as  her 
voice  was  pleasant.  He  supposed  clever  ladies  in  southern 
Germany  did  such  things,  though  an  hour  after  midnight 
seemed  a  remarkable  time  to  choose.  Having  thus  excused 
her  eccentricity  to  his  own  satisfaction,  it  exceeded  all 
previous  surprises  when  he  found  the  appointed  book  both 
simple  in  statement,  and  in  subject  such  as  he  would  have 
chosen  in  leisured  hours  to  read  himself. 

It  was  a  graphic  tale  of  some  ship-wrecked  men  in  dis- 
tant seas  ;  scenes  of  life  as  far  removed  as  possible  from  any- 
thing he  had  known — which  was  a  vast  relief — though  re- 
minding him  dimly  of  some  of  his  father's  stories.  The 
detail,  both  local  and  technical,  was  clear  and  good ;  the 
men's  experience  related  with  such  ingenuity  that  his 
thoughts  could  hardly  shift  from  the  problem  their  situation 
presented.  He  thought  it  out  as  she  read,  creasing  a  corner 
of  the  sheet  with  his  agile  fingers  and  flashing  a  glance  at 


THE   PENALTY  211 

her  from  time  to  time  as  fresh  details  in  the  problem  came 
to  light.  She  was  as  serious  as  he  was,  fortunately ;  so 
there  was  no  doubt  it  must  all  be  a  good  case,  worth  con- 
sidering. 

Later,  as  the  plot  thickened,  and  the  hero's  embarrass- 
ments also,  Antoine  made  a  few  suggestions,  to  Carlotta's 
delight ;  for  they  showed  not  only  an  unaltered  fertility  of 
brain,  but  a  credulity  and  ingenuousness  which  matched 
his  age.  She  laid  down  the  book  and  let  him  argue  it,  before 
she  read  on.  He  was  a  little  vexed  at  last,  when  she  stopped 
at  a  peculiar  and  quite  unforseen  crisis,  and  refused  entirely 
to  go  further. 

"  I  am  tired,"  was  Carlotta's  excuse,  as  she  marked  the 
place  with  a  letter  she  had  been  holding,  and  put  the  book 
on  a  high  shelf,  regardless  of  the  hand  he  stretched  for 
it.  The  hand  dropped,  and  Antoine's  brow  expressed  con- 
cern. Such  was  the  interest  of  the  story,  and  the  crisp  light- 
ness of  her  tone  in  reading  it,  that  it  had  not  occurred  to 
him  once  the  read^^  could  be  tired.  Yet  he  had  often  been 
so  himself,  in  the  days  when  he  read  aloud  to  his  grand- 
father, and  the  old  man's  interest  carried  them  beyond  the 
stated  hour.  It  was  unpardonable  in  him;  and  with  this 
lady,  who  had  attended  him  unresting — as  soon  as  he  came 
to  consider  it — for  forty-eight  hours  and  longer. 

"  You  go  upstairs  ?  "  he  suggested,  brilliant-eyed.  "  Good- 
night." 

Frau  Lorbeer  smiled  at  her  dismissal.  She  straightened 
the  sheet  his  restless  hand  had  crumpled,  touched  his  brow 
and  wrist  with  an  almost  professional  manner,  and  generally 
went  through  the  correct  forms  of  separation  for  the  night. 
Only,  she  failed  actually  to  go.  Lowering  the  light,  she 
settled  instead  in  her  chair,  all  of  her  concealed  by  its  high 
projecting  back  except  a  slight  glitter  of  gold  chain,  and  the 
hand  she  left  beside  him  on  the  bed,  on  which  another  thin 
gold  gleam  betrayed  her  wedding-ring.  There  she  sat 
motionless,  contented  to  all  appearance,  a  very  inspiration  of 
repose.     Antoine  felt  the  invitation  to  do  likewise,  though 


212  SUCCESSION 

the  only  immediate  effect  her  proceeding  had  was  to  turn  his 
too  active  mind  upon  her. 

However,  after  a  long  period,  immeasurable  as  are  all 
periods  of  the  night,  during  which  the  boy  all  unconscious 
idealised  Carlotta,  disembodied  her,  and  set  her  to  music, 
he  slid  his  fingers  under  her  hand,  and  turned  sidelong  on 
the  pillow,  to  doze  or  dream  of  those  sailors'  probable  fate, 
and  the  faint  glimmer  of  hope  for  them  which  the  talented 
author  had  left,  which  seemed,  in  the  shadow-world  between 
sleep  and  waking,  to  be  his  own  hope  also. 

Next  morning  the  world  was  better,  and  Antome  found 
his  tongue  at  an  early  hour.  His  first  observations  were 
offered  over  the  humours  of  a  recalcitrant  fire,  which  Frau 
Lorbeer  had  seen  fit  to  take  out  of  the  hands  of  her  sisters' 
maid,  thus  saving  waste  of  time  and  material,  and  giving  the 
girl  a  lesson  by  the  way.  Antoine  watched  the  demonstra- 
tion with  interest  from  afar,  and  then  giggled  a  little  when 
the  fire,  at  the  first  attempt,  still  refused  to  burn,  puffing 
clouds  of  smoke  instead  upon  lecturer  and  lectured  alike. 

"  The  wood  is  wet,"  said  Carlotta  calmly.  So,  having 
given  it  a  poke,  she  set  light  to  the  structure  again.  At 
this  critical  moment,  when  the  flame  was  just  starting,  the 
audience  admiring,  and  the  lecturer  taking  off  her  gloves, 
a  knock  announced  the  doctor's  visit,  of  earliness  unpre- 
cedented. Frau  Lorbeer,  with  one  glance  upon  her  hands, 
which  were  speckless,  w^ent  to  the  door. 

"  Is  your  patient  awake  ?  "  inquired  the  German  doctor. 
"  Tell  him  I  bring  a  friend."  A  tall,  gaunt  shape  filled  the 
doorway. 

Carlotta  went  to  the  boy,  and  leaning  down,  gave  the 
message,  which  he  hardly  seemed  at  once  to  take  in.  He 
slightly  turned  his  head,  and  the  tall  man  moved  forward. 
Then  his  sleepy  face  changed  slowly. 

"  M.  Raymond  ?  "  he  said,  puzzled. 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  this  ?  "  said  the  tyrant. 

"  But — were  you  here  too  ?  " 

"  No.     I  have  come  from  Paris." 


THE    PENALTY  213 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  By  the  night  train,  most  slow-witted.  How  else  should 
I  come?  I  had  to  stop  a  day,  to  get  things  into  order,  that 
was  all.  Now,  what  is  all  this  about?  "  He  laid  hands  like 
claws  on  Antoine's  shoulders  as  he  lay  prostrate. 

"Did  he  send  the  telegram?"  said  Antoine,  instantly 
clasping  the  wrists  of  the  hands.  His  relief  and  happiness 
at  seeing  a  face  from  home,  and  speaking  French  again, 
were  clear  in  touch  and  upward  gaze,  though  he  lacked 
energy  to  move.  "  How  could  you  leave  the  clinique?  "  he 
added  quickly  to  the  other  question. 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  mind  your  own  business,"  said 
Savigny. 

"  I  have  none,"  the  patient  chuckled,  "  here." 

Savigny's  grim  face  showed  a  faint  smile.  He  had  the 
boy  pinned  under  the  full  light  now,  and  was  searching 
him  keen-eyed.  "  Your  grandfather  sends  his  love,  and 
you  are  to  regard  me  as  himself,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  said  Antoine,  "  if  you  bend  right  down ; 
but  I  cannot  move  very  well." 

Savigny  glanced  at  the  other  doctor.  "  You  will  treat 
me  with  respect,  Antoine,  before  members  of  my  profes- 
sion," he  said.  "  Now  you  are  going  to  be  examined,  and 
perhaps  hurt,  so  you  can  stop  talking." 

"  I  do  not  mind  talking  French." 

"  I  mind  hearing  it.    Get  these  things  off." 

"Must  I  come  into  the  cold?" 

"  Do  what  I  tell  you ;  and  hold  your  tongue." 

"  You  must  be  cold  too,  in  the  train  all  night.     I  wish 

"  Veux-tu  te  taire,"  barked  Savigny.    A  pause. 

"  This  is  Frau  Lorbeer,"  said  Antoine.  "  Herr  Reuss's 
sister.  Do  you  remember  him  ?  " 
j  Both  the  bystanders  broke  into  laughter;  for  the  hot- 
I  tempered  doctor  was  caught,  and  had  to  turn  and  bow. 
{  Antoine  was  quite  serious,  and  rather  surprised  at  their 
!   amusement  over  an  introduction. 


214  SUCCESSION  J 

"  He  must  speak  German  again  evidently,"  said  the  nurse 
in  very  good  French.  "  He  is  less  eloquent  in  our  tongue, 
Monsieur." 

"  I  cannot  think  quite  so  quickly,"  Antoine  apologised. 
"  French  is  so  beautiful.    Do  you  mind?" 

"  I  can  follow  you,"  said  Carlotta  gently. 

"  We  are  wasting  time,"  observed  the  tyrant,  who  ob- 
jected to  social  inanities  in  working  hours.  Having  waited 
for  the  woman  to  go,  which  she  did  not,  he  came  to  close 
quarters  with  his  shrinking  patient.  He  had  not  set  eyes 
on  the  boy  since  May,  and  the  first  thing  he  marked  with 
annoyance  was  how  wasted  he  was. 

"  No  wonder  you  are  cold,"  he  snapped,  "  when  you  don't 
nourish  yourself  properly." 

"  But  I  eat  a  great  deal,"  protested  Antoine.  "  Of  course 
just  these  days " 

"  There  is  no  of  course,"  said  Savigny.  "  Your  afifair  is 
to  eat  what  you  are  given.  I  taught  you  that  some  time 
since.  Attend  to  me,  will  you  ?  "  he  added,  for  the  boy's 
eyes  had  moved  to  his  nurse  again.  She  had  been  master- 
ful too,  in  the  matter  alluded  to,  but  they  understood  one 
another.  Savigny  shot  her  one  glance,  by  no  means  pleas- 
ant, still  keeping  a  claw  on  the  victim.  He  was  suspicious 
of  any  nurses  but  such  as  he  had  discovered  and  subjugated; 
and  even  so,  he  preferred  men.  This  person  did  not  look 
easy  to  subjugate.  In  short,  after  inspection,  he  put  Car- 
lotta off;  and  proceeded  so  far  as  the  amateur  eye  could 
judge,  to  make  Antoine  suffer  for  his  disapproval  of  her. 
During  his  subsequent  operations,  Frau  Lorbeer's  fury 
mounted  steadily.  The  boy's  obvious  and  pitiful  terror  of 
being  moved  Savigny  set  at  nought,  rode  down  his  frantic 
resistance  with  greater  violence,  seized,  jerked  and  tossed 
about  in  what  appeared  to  be  the  most  careless  manner. 
Only  the  other  expert,  attending  with  extraordinary  interest, 
could  not  but  suspect  the  roughness  studied,  and  the  haste 
mercifully  designed. 

"Tears?"     Savigny  scoffed,  when  he  finally  threw  his 


THE    PENALTY  215 

victim  back  into  position.  "  That's  temper.  I  did  not  hurt 
you."  He  put  a  hand  under  his  chin  and  watched  critically 
his  struggle  for  self-control.  "Done?"  he  inquired  at 
leisure.  "  Well,  that's  not  so  bad,  considering  everything. 
I  did  not  hurt  you  really,  now,  did  I  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  the  boy,  not  looking  as  high  as  his 
face.  "  I — I  imagine  it  still  hurts  a  good  deal.  When  it 
s-stops  I  will  tell  you."  With  which  he  tugged  from  the 
tyrant's  grasp  and  buried  his  face. 

"  Pure  temper,"  said  Savigny  thoughtfully ;  but  his  hand 
on  the  patient's  head  seemed  to  suggest  approval  neverthe- 
less. So  standing,  he  took  a  critical  survey  of  the  German 
room,  the  new  scene  of  his  labours,  ignoring  the  occupants 
carefully  meanwhile.    Then  he  turned  on  Franck. 

"  Leave  me,  will  you?  "  he  said  carelessly.  "  I  shall  stay 
a  little — in  jMadame's  place,  since  she  must  have  her  affairs. 
We  will  meet  at  midday." 

The  doctor  bowed,  and  held  the  door  for  Carlotta  to  pass. 
They  both  stopped  in  the  passage  without,  a  little  astonished 
to  find  themselves  there. 

"Who,"  said  Frau  Lorbeer,  "is  that  person?" 

"  Raymond  Savigny,"  she  was  informed.  "  The  mag- 
netic specialist;  a  rather  remarkable  fellow." 

"  He  looks  mad,"  said  Carlotta.  "  I  do  not  at  all  like 
his  eyes.    I  think  you  should  not  have  left  them,  sir." 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  your  brother  says,"  ex- 
plained Franck,  who,  recovering  from  the  sway  of  the 
stranger's  will  upon  him,  felt  some  degree  of  excuse  neces- 
sary. "  I  suppose  he  does  not  care  to  exhibit  his  greatest 
secrets  publicly." 

"Secrets?"  said  Carlotta,  with  disdain.  "If  it  is  hon- 
est work,  he  will  show  it.  He  frightened  the  child,  and  hurt 
him  too." 

"  Less  than  I  should  have  done,  had  I  attempted  it,"  said 
Franck.  "  He  is  clever,  and  quick  to  a  marvel.  I  never 
saw  such  hands." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Carlotta  coldly. 


2i6  SUCCESSION 

"  Will  you  not  rest  ?  "  the  doctor  asked  her,  smiling.  "  It 
seems  a  chance." 

"  I  shall  go  above,"  said  Carlotta,  glancing  at  her  watch, 
"  for  an  hour  or  so,  since  I  have  some  affairs  with  my 
daughter.  But  I  shall  return  at  eleven,  glare  at  me  as  he 
will." 

But  Savigny  did  not  glare.  When  she  returned  he  was 
sitting  in  deep  meditation  over  his  patient,  his  long  limbs 
oddly  arranged,  his  chin  on  his  fist.  The  boy  was  lying  pros- 
trate, under  him  almost,  for  one  of  the  doctor's  elbows  rested 
on  the  bed.  He  was  fast  asleep,  a  sleep  so  motionless  that  it 
looked  like  death ;  only  Carlotta  drawing  nearer,  saw  that 
his  chest  was  rising  and  falling  slightly  but  regularly,  and 
his  face,  though  white,  was  composed  and  tranquil. 

"  You  have  not  been  trained?  "  said  Savigny  of  a  sudden 
quite  aloud.  He  had  been  watching  her  still  deft  movements 
as  she  straightened  the  room.  She  shook  her  head,  with 
a  glance  at  the  boy.  "  So  much  the  better,"  said  Savigny, 
and  relapsed. 

"Is  that  natural  sleep?"  she  asked,  unable  to  avoid  the 
question. 

"  Depends  how  you  regard  nature.  It's  sleep  I  gave  him, 
because  he  told  me  he  could  get  no  other.  I  suppose  it  was 
true?" 

"  He  has  not  had  two  hours'  consecutive  rest  since  his  first 
night  in  this  house,"  said  Carlotta. 

"  Good,"  said  Savigny.    "  Then  I  have  not  wasted  it." 

"  I  thought  you  knew  him,"  said  Carlotta,  letting  her  dis- 
dain appear. 

"  So  I  do.  But  in  the  progress  of  maladies  such  as  I 
study,  one  does  not  rest  on  preconceptions." 

*'  Character  does  not  change,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Doesn't  it?"  said  Savigny,  with  amusement.  "I  am 
speaking  professionally,  Madame.  I  get  every  kind  of  lie 
from  imaginative  patients :  and  this  has  a  powerful  imagina- 
tion." 


THE    PENALTY  217 

"  You  are  waking  him,"  said  Carlotta,  with  contained 
fury,  for  the  absent-minded  tyrant  had  tweaked  the  lock  on 
the  boy's  brow,  in  speaking. 

"  Hey  ?  "  Savigny  bent  to  look  into  the  eyes  that  were 
half  opened.  He  laid  two  fingers  of  each  hand  to  the  brow 
above  them,  and  whispered  something,  syllables  Carlotta 
failed  to  catch.  The  eyes  closed  again,  and  the  worried  line 
under  his  finger-tips  disappeared  as  by  magic.  Then  the 
strange  doctor  removed  his  hands  and  dragged  himself  up- 
right. 

"  Hard  work,"  he  commented,  stretching  his  long  limbs. 
"  I  had  little  sleep  of  my  own  to  give  away."  He  looked 
at  Carlotta's  half -averted  face,  which  eloquently  expressed 
the  equal  blending  of  disgust  and  curiosity.  "  So  you  speak 
up  for  my  patient's  character,"  he  said.  "  Has  he  behaved 
himself?  " 

"  He  has  been  nearly  incapable." 

"  That's  not  saying  much  for  him.  Has  he  helped  you, 
or  hindered? " 

"  He  is  always  angelic,"  said  Carlotta,  with  her  back 
turned. 

"  You've  been  spoiling  him,"  decided  Savigny.  "  Very 
good ;  that  will  be  the  more  work  for  others  later.  Is  there 
a  good  hotel  near  here?  " 

"Good  gracious!"  Reuss's  sister  nearly  jumped. 
"  Friedrich  will  never  forgive  me."  She  turned  to  face 
him.  "  Of  course  you  stay  with  us,  sir.  My  husband  or 
my  brother  would  be  equally  honoured." 

"  Whose  house  am  I  in  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  My  brother  Dr  Reuss's." 

"Good;  then  I  stay  here.    I  believe  I  know  him." 

"  I  would  present  you  at  once,  if  it  were  not "  Car- 
lotta glanced  beyond  him  at  Antoine. 

"  Leave  him,"  said  the  tyrant  easily.  "  He'll  do  for  the 
present.  It's  one  method  of  giving  the  nurse  a  holiday.  " 
He  smiled ;  and  the  smile  was  such  that  Carlotta  wondered 


2i8  SUCCESSION 

whether  in  certain  circumstances  she  might  not  have  liked 
him.     She  took  him  to  find  Reuss. 

"  The  little  thing  is  not  bad,"  wrote  Savigny,  "  but 
languid,  and  his  pulse  extremely  poor.  He  was  astonished 
to  see  me,  but  not  frightened  as  much  as  I  have  known  him. 
His  faculties  are  in  order  too.  He  presented  me  round  the 
company,  juggling  with  tongues  fit  to  turn  the  brain — as 
though  I  cared  about  the  lot  of  them.  However,  I  have 
come  on  a  visit,  I  suppose,  to  see  fat  Germans,  and  the 
beauties  of  Bavaria.  Well,  so  I  teased  and  tormented  him 
for  the  first  twenty  minutes ;  and  he  told  me  hometruths  ly- 
ing prostrate  for  the  next  twenty.  Not  such  a  paralysing 
experience  as  his  last  performance,  but  pretty  good  in  its 
way.  Then,  since  he  would  do  everything  in  the  world  but 
look  straight  at  me,  I  laid  a  pretty  trap,  caught  him  off  his 
guard,  and  sent  him  to  sleep. 

"  Apropos,  you  recollect  when  I  reported  the  last  engage- 
ment, you  said  he  was  growing  beyond  us,  and  I  called  you 
a  fool  ?  Well,  you  were  right.  It  took  longer  than  it  used 
to  manage  him  to-day,  and  more  effort  than  I  care  to  give ; 
and  he  made  no  secret  of  his  opinion  of  my  dirty  tricks, 
during  the  period  I  held  his  eyes.  Charles,  I  tell  you  for  the 
minutes  while  he  struggles,  they  are  a  revelation:  all  his 
soul  there — sulky,  furious,  beautiful — just  like  hers.  I 
never  feel  so  far  from  him,  or  so  near.  And  then  the  veil 
drops  blank,  and  he  shuts  me  out  with  the  other  hideous 
things  of  earth.  .  .  .  Still,  I  scored  that  last  time,  did  I 
not?    You  will  never  better  that.     .     .     . 

"  I  send  you  what  details  I  can  sweep  up  of  the  collapse 
on  Sunday.  I  don't  know  they  could  have  done  more  than 
they  did.  The  local  man,  though  a  chatterer,  is  not  an  ass, 
and  there's  a  woman  with  wits  on  the  premises.  The  house 
has  resources  too :  cooking  capable  of  anything,  and  first- 
class  wine,  fruit,  ice — I  can't  stump  them  anywhere,  though 
I  put  on  my  upper-class  airs  for  the  occasion.  They  appre- 
ciate me  more  in  this  town  than  they  do  at  home,  though 


THE    PENALTY  219 

that's  not  saying  much.  I  shall  stay  a  bit,  Charles:  it's 
rather  comfortable,  and  the  company,  especially  in  the  sick- 
room, good.  Tell  my  people,  for  I  have  little  time  for  writ- 
ing. Oh  yes — and  give  Bronne  the  sheet  of  data,  will  you? 
He  was  interested.  .  .  .  Everyone  says  Antoine  played 
gloriously  on  Saturday,  so  that  is  something  scored,  on  your 
side.  Not  much,  I  grant,  on  mine.  But  there  is  no  work- 
ing for  him,  in  this  state :  even  I  cannot  think  of  it.  There 
is  nothing  to  do  but  look  at  him,  and  gnaw  one's  fingers, 
and  wait  for  to-morrow ;  which  he  is  doing  now,  with  his 
eyes  open.  It's  the  waste  I  can't  get  over.  Your  gods  must 
be  off  their  heads — material  like  that.  I've  got  him  by  the 
hand,  though,  no  retreat  possible:  and  there  must  be  a 
rally  soon.     .     .     ." 

"Did  I  mention  there  was  a  woman?"  wrote  Savigny 
the  next  day.  "  Lorbeer,  the  name  seems  to  be :  Char- 
lotte or  something — perhaps  you  know  her,  Charles.  She's 
pretty  after  a  fashion,  though  it  is  not  the  v^ild-bird  style 
I  care  for,  between  ourselves.  Compared  with  that,  Ma- 
dame Lorbeer  is  stony.  There  are  points,  however,  in  her 
favour,  and  cooking  is  one  of  them.  Did  I  tell  you  that  it 
was  she  timed  the  syncope  to  a  minute  that  day,  watching 
the  clock  for  a  soufflee  when  she  was  called  ?  How's  that  ? 
She  is  a  trifle  too  pleased  with  herself,  but  sharp  enough. 
'  Did  you  think  he  would  die  ?  '  I  said,  to  catch  her.  '  No,' 
says  she.  *  I  thought  he  was  dead,  until  I  found  a  pulse, 
and  then  I  thought  of  dying  no  longer.'  I  said,  by  way 
of  compliment,  that  if  she  was  a  widow  I  should  have  her 
to  Paris.  '  So  long  as  I  had  children,  sir,  you  would  not,' 
says  Madame.  I  advised  her  not  to  tempt  me  to  try.  She 
might  have  a  gift  for  children,  I  can't  say.  The  boy  likes 
her — follows  her  about  with  his  eyes.  It's  true  she's  nice 
to  look  at,  and  Antoine  has  taste  of  a  sort — I  always  said 
so.     .     .     . 

"  Little  Madame  asks  me  all  sorts  of  prying  questions 
about  your  family,  which  I  amuse  myself  by  not  answering 
— at  considerable  length.    I  have  the  pull  iit  dialogue,  since 


220  SUCCESSION 

we  talk  French  at  these  times.  Women  originate  theories,  I 
observe,  and  then  find  evidence  to  build  them  on.  I  habitu- 
ally work  the  other  way.  I  told  her  that,  and  she  seemed 
annoyed;  a  pretty  colour  that  fair  complexion  has.  She 
thinks  she  is  a  philosopher,  and  a  bel  esprit,  and  tries  to 
trip  me  in  public.  She  had  better  be  making  soufflees  or 
plaiting  her  little  daughter's  hair,  which  would  be  a  righteous 
satisfaction  to  any  mortal.  Two  children,  Charles,  the  em- 
bodiment of  health:  equable,  blooming,  exquisitely  ordi- 
nary :  enough  to  make  the  outworn  French  physician  weep 
tears  of  pure  envy.  Better  than  all  the  theories  in  the 
world,  I  assured  Madame,  and  she  little  guessed  I  was 
serious.     .     .     . 

"  The  brother,  your  Reuss,  is  something  of  a  man.  He 
has  appeased  these  cursed  prying  papers  and  photographers 
somehow,  though  I  gather  it  has  been  a  task.  To  judge  by 
his  physiognomy,  he  would  not  lie  well ;  and  Antoine's 
beaux  yeux  have  brought  down  the  city  of  Munich  en  masse. 
Some  queen  or  other  wrote  him  a  letter,  and  the  queen's 
husband  sent  him  a  photograph  by  Reuss,  and  a  decora- 
tion. Will  you  mention  these  facts  carelessly  to  Lucien, 
and  tell  me  how  he  bears  it?  The  reporters  are  smart  for 
such  things  though,  and  may  have  been  before  me.  I  should 
be  entertained  myself,  if  it  did  not  chance  to  be  a  bore. 
How  can  I  get  him  out,  I  ask  you,  if  this  goes  on?  They 
would  throw  things  at  the  carriage,  and  frighten  him.    .    .    . 

"  Tell  Lucien  he  can  go  ahead  with  the  autumn  pro- 
gramme, certainly.  I  only  want  a  little  time,  and  freedom 
to  manage  in  my  way.  He  is  quite  responsive,  and  as  clever 
as  he  ever  was ;  only  confused  a  little  by  his  failure,  as  we 
regard  it.  He  feels  it  necessary  to  apologise,  when  he 
makes  mistakes,  or  when  one  has  to  wait  for  him.  But  I 
feel  the  wit's  there,  it  is  only  that  the  connections  do  not 
adjust  immediately.  Your  letter  was  very  ingenious, 
Charles.  It  made  him  happy,  and  woke  him  up  a  little. 
Write  again  in  a  few  days:  it's  good  for  him  to  wish  for 
it.     .     .     . 


THEPENALTY  221 

"  Lucien  need  not  be  in  a  taking,  you  know,  for  I  acquit 
him.  In  fact,  you  can  tell  him  I  never  imagined  for  an  in- 
stant he  was  to  blame.  He  irritates  the  child,  of  course,  but 
he  could  not  derail  him  like  this,  if  he  tried  for  fifty  years. 
Lucien  is  a  healthy  nonentity — no,  stop  before  you  say 
that,  Charles;  it  is  a  little  too  true.  I  am  still  fumbling 
myself,  which  always  spoils  my  temper,  but  the  deuce  is 
in  it  if  I  do  not  put  my  finger  on  the  culprit  soon.  See 
here:  what  would  you  say  to  a  scoundrel  who  smiles,  and 
tells  untruths,  with  a  German  name?  Never  mind  how  I 
got  that,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  methods.  Reuss  says 
the  portrait  fits  no  one  in  the  house,  seems  a  little  incensed 
at  the  idea.  Well,  how  could  I  be  sure,  with  scoundrelly 
Germans  all  about  me?  Reuss  has  doubtless  discovered 
that  I  hate  the  race,  though  he  is  certainly  a  decent  excep- 
tion. He  talked  about  Henriette  last  night,  and  every  word 
he  said  was  just ;  a  little  too  just — he  can't  ever  have  been 
in  love  with  her.    Was  he? 

"  To-night  I  let  him  come  to  the  boy,  and  he  had  the 
sense  not  to  stay  long.  He  brought  the  little  order  in  its 
case,  and  laid  it  in  his  hand.  Antoine,  after  considering 
and  dangling  the  ribbon  for  a  period,  turned  and  tried  it  on 
Reuss's  coat.  '  Ours,'  he  said,  in  his  careful  little  utterance : 
and  the  man  said,  '  Thine.'  That  was  about  all  of  their  pri- 
vate conversation  I  could  follow.  I  tell  you,  I  hate  to  hear 
him  talk  to  these  people,  taking  all  the  trouble,  when  they 
are  fat  and  lazy  and  so-called  educated.  Besides,  I  can't 
always  translate  the  stufif." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  correspondence  after  this,  and 
a  card  or  two  to  Lucien.  The  next  long  letter  was  entirely 
devoted  to  the  visit  of  an  eminent  psychologist,  who  came 
from  a  town  fifty  miles  away  to  call  on  Savigny ;  and  who 
proved  such  stimulating  company  that  the  pair  had  to  be 
invited  to  lunch  with  the  Lorheers,  in  order  not  to  disturb 
the  patient  by  a  discussion,  parts  of  which  were  too  inti- 
mate, and  all  of  which  was  too  loud,  for  his  ease  of  mind 
and  body.     Savigny  had  the  pleasure  of  making  a  vast  im- 


222  SUCCESSION 

pression,  not  only  on  this  learned  gentleman,  but  also  on 
Carlotta's  husband,  a  triumph  which  had  for  him  a  peculiar 
satisfaction.  The  doctors  even  made  Lorbeer  admit  that 
women  were  too  fond  of  nursing  on  the  least  occasion,  and 
that  the  habit  became  demoralising  in  practice,  though  in 
the  abstract  all  that  was  suitable  and  charming.  At  about 
this  point  in  the  discussion  the  two  scientists  clattered  down 
the  stairs,  roaring  over  a  medical  joke,  and  woke  the  pa- 
tient out  of  an  after-dinner  nap  under  his  nurse's  wing. 
Franz  heard  of  that  afterwards. 

Savigny's  psychological  disquisition  M.  Lemaure  an- 
swered by  a  card  of  somewhat  nervous  inquiry;  and  his 
friend  had  to  reassure  him  when  leisure  served. 

"  I  shall  not  come  home  without  him,  never  fear.  I 
suggested  to-day  in  the  salon  that  he  was  fit  to  travel,  and 
then  found  I  had  made  a  brutal  proposition.  Three  women 
squeaked  at  once,  and  the  little  Lorbeer  said,  with  burning 
eyes — she  hates  me — that  her  brother  had  just  made  ar- 
rangements for  a  week's  massage.  *  Massage  ? '  says  L 
'  We  can't  afford  it.'  I  can't  stand  the  assumptions  of  rich 
people.  Two  of  them  gaped  at  me,  and  the  other  retorted, 
'  It  is  our  affair,'  says  she,  '  to  return  Antoine  to  his  guardian 
in  the  state  in  which  we  received  him.'  'Your  affair?' 
says  I,  *  My  brother's, '  said  Madame  coldly,  '  The  man  is 
highly  certificated,  and  I  have  looked  up  his  references. 
He  is  coming  to-morrow  morning.' 

"  Well,  there  you  are.  Is  that  high-handed,  or  is  it  not? 
Not  that  the  project  is  a  bad  one,  or  that  I  suppose  you 
would  object  to  Reuss's  financing  it;  since  money  seems 
literally  nothing  to  him,  especially  lavished  on  the  boy.  But 
it  is  an  indication  of  the  trend  of  affairs.  It  is  clear  to 
me  I  am  not  at  the  end  of  the  skirmishes  yet.  Their  line 
is  absurd,  for  the  boy  is  well ;  only  a  little  fidgetty  about  his 
fingers,  which  will  not  do  all  he  requires,  as  it  seems  ;  though, 
on  my  word,  he  makes  noise  enough.  I  notice  one  thing: 
playing  does  not  seem  to  excite  him  so  much,  now  he  is  at 
the  top  of  the  tree.    It  is  a  blessing,  or  I  might  have  to  dis- 


THE    PENALTY 


223 


courage  the  proceeding,  and  then  where  would  you  be, 
my  fine  people  ?  You  might  even  say  the  instrument  bores 
him  rather,  but  that  is  doubtless  pose,  before  the  admiring 
household.  I  warn  you  he  will  be  spoiled,  Charles,  unless 
you  order  him  home  soon.  That  little  woman  you  ad- 
mire so  is  the  most  in  fault,  though  she  makes  out  to  be 
superior,  and  only  addresses  him  from  her  altitude  now 
and  then.  .  .  .  We  spoke  of  you  last  night,  and  dif- 
fered as  usual.  She  said  you  were  kind  to  her  in  the  great- 
est trouble  of  her  life — before  her  marriage.  Of  course 
with  a  woman  that  can  only  mean  one  thing.  One  of  those 
terrible  long  betrothals,  I  gather,  and  the  fellow  died — or 
deserted  her?  Not  the  last,  I  imagine,  since  she  speaks  of 
it  clear-eyed  to  a  stranger.  Of  course  you  were  kind  to  her, 
cela  va  sans  dire.  Under  twenty  I  might  have  been  myself. 
.  .  .  I  alluded  to  your  agreeable  flexibility.  'Flexible?' 
cries  she.  You  are  the  severest  person  she  ever  met,  intol- 
erant by  birth,  for  you  are  capable  of  only  one  point  of 
view.  Well,  I  said  you  had  always  agreed  with  me;  and 
the  little  vixen  laughed  in  my  face.  She  seldom  laughs,  too, 
and  her  children  were  evidently  surprised  at  her.  .  .  . 
"  The  girl,  who  is  her  namesake,  sat  beside  me  for  an 
hour  after  dinner,  an  adorable  little  creature,  composing 
French  phrases  with  her  hands  crossed.  She  told  me  of 
her  studies  till  I  grew  alarmed,  and  asked  how  her  myrtle- 
tree  was  growing.  I  misquoted  some  Lamartine  in  her 
album,  and  she  put  her  sweet  little  finger  on  the  mistake. 
Then  I  wrote  my  name  in  her  birthday-book,  and  entreated 
her  to  mention  if  I  wrote  it  wrong;  at  which  she  smiled, 
and  looked  at  her  mother.  Hastening  to  think  of  any  non- 
sense to  keep  her  by  me,  I  asked  why  she  had  not  got  An- 
toine's  signature.  Whereat  she  blushed  to  her  forehead,  and 
I  discovered  she  had  not  dared  to  ask.  ...  I  had  blun- 
dered into  that  lovely  toil,  a  Teutonic  maiden's  first  romance. 
Imagine  my  not  having  had  the  wit  to  guess  that  since  she 
had  heard  him  play,  and  been  allowed  to  cook  for  him  in 
illness,  he  had  become  divine.     .     .     .     I  let  her  recover. 


224  SUCCESSION 

and  then  lugged  my  young  gentleman  in  by  the  arm,  and 
made  him  write  it  on  the  spot.  No  one  more  willing,  of 
course:  blase  indifference — the  public  favourite — I  could 
have  cuffed  him !  And  then  the  great  childish  hand — 
what's  he  doing  being  so  young,  anyhow  ?  It's  always  put- 
ting me  out,  when  I  least  expect  it.     .     .     ." 

"  I  have  quarrelled  with  Madame,"  wrote  Savigny 
finally.  "  I  knew  I  should,  before  we  got  through.  She 
has  her  plan,  cut  out  and  ready,  clean  as  you  please,  not  an 
allowance  made  anywhere  for  other  people's  ideas.  The 
way  these  females  think  their  instinct  rules  the  world. 
Instinct?  It  is  the  cunning  of  the  weak,  developed  by  a  few 
centuries'  experience  on  slightly  better  lines  than  Eve's  was, 
that  is  all. 

"  Well,  she  goes  to  the  country  with  her  oflfspring  for  a 
month  immediately,  and  she  requires  your  grandson  to  ac- 
company them.  She  talks  of  air,  Charles,  the  ancient  shib- 
boleth. I  told  her  I  have  always  found  the  air  of  a  big 
town  best  for  workers:  why,  I  have  personally  only  to  go 
to  Meudon  to  lose  driving  power  at  once.  As  for  sea  air, 
it  leaves  you  as  stupid  as  a  dead  dog.  Mountain  air,  owing 
to  limitations  of  purse  and  otherwise,  I  have  never  experi- 
mented upon ;  but  if  Antoine  wants  to  experiment,  we  could 
always  send  him  up  the  Eiffel  Tower.     .     .     . 

"  To  make  things  all  safe,  though,  I  asked  him ;  and  she 
agreed  to  the  appeal.  In  her  presence,  I  put  the  case  fairly : 
my  view,  yours — and  hers.  I  said,  what  is  true,  you  were 
unfit  to  move  and  wanted  him ;  and  that  since  certain  of  the 
admirable  unknown  had  done  him  the  service  of  writing 
him  up,  Lucien  had  found  it  hard  to  fight  off  engagements, 
even  for  the  fortnight  to  come.  His  uncle  had  managed  it, 
and  it  was  unfair  to  ask  him  to  do  more.  Madame  spoke 
too — she  is  not  a  great  hand  at  speaking,  our  Delilah.  I 
could  myself  have  made  for  her  a  better  case:  in  fact  I 
improved  it  a  little.  I  said  the  wind  of  the  Alps  would  prob- 
ably blow  away  the   remaining  cobwebs,  more  especially 


THE    PENALTY  225 

those  that  had  annoyed  you  in  the  spring ;  that  I  was  sure 
he  needed  to  clear  up  his  ideas  on  many  points ;  and  that 
having  rushed  headlong  into  the  musical  career  in  his 
fashion  last  autumn,  he  had  been  flagging  already  in  May. 
I  made  all  allowances  for  his  health,  and  intimated  that  his 
kind  friends  desired  to  make  more.  I  added  that  Madame 
Lorbeer  wanted  his  company,  and  Mademoiselle  her  daugh- 
ter also. 

"  '  We  want  what  is  best  for  him  only,'  she  put  in  at 
this  point. 

"  The  boy  was  worried,  as  was  evident,  but  he  let  her 
know  pretty  brusquely  what  he  meant  to  do.  With  the  taste 
of  triumph  still  in  his  mouth,  it  could  hardly  have  been 
otherwise,  as  I  should  have  warned  her.  And  then,  when 
he  had  gone,  she  had  the  consummate  impudence  to  imply 
that  I  had  used  illicit  means  to  manage  him!  Presumed  to 
believe  I  could  dominate  and  suggest,  in  public  conclave, 
and  for  private  ends!  Why,  from  a  man  of  my  own  age 
and  profession,  I  would  not  have  borne  such  a  charge. 

"  So  we  quarrelled,  Charles ;  as  pretty  a  little  sparring 
match  as  I  ever  had.  She  fights  very  well,  if  she  cannot 
persuade;  and  I  feel  the  better  for  the  exercise  to-night. 
She  said  plenty  of  things  about  him  that  were  true,  and  even 
interesting,  for  she  has  used  her  chances  of  observation 
well.  I  cannot  assume,  either,  that  she  does  not  know  the 
demands  of  the  professional  life ;  with  her  experience  she 
must  know  something,  though  she  guards  her  retirement 
like  a  nun — or  a  widow.  She  observed,  indeed — what  was 
odd — that  we  were  in  the  same  position,  since  neither  of  us 
had  heard  him  in  public,  and  judged  him  entirely  on  his 
private  merits.  Private  merits! — of  that  infant.  The  re- 
mark amused  me.  T  mentioned  I  knew  him  better  for  know- 
ing you :  and  to  that  she  had  no  direct  reply.  '  I  know  An- 
loine's  view  of  Monsieur  Lemaure,'  she  said.  '  I  did  not 
suppose  that  could  be  left  out  of  account.'  I  put  your  case  : 
that  a  break  could  have  been  made  last  year,  when  he  would 
not  have  it;  but  that  he  had  made  himself  conspicuous  and 


226  SUCCESSION 

created  a  wide  demand  (illustrations  from  Lucien)  and  to 
break  at  this  point  would  be  foolish  and  worse.  She  said 
that  the  demand  for  good  things  would  not  cease  for  delay- 
ing for  a  little  time  its  satisfaction ;  and  I  felicitated  her  on 
such  beautiful  ignorance  of  the  public,  particularly  ours. 
She  said,  as  a  general  remark,  that  he  was  living  too  quickly 
and  not  tasting  life.  Well,  for  my  own  part  I  have  not 
found  the  flavour  worth  dwelling  on;  but  in  deference  to 
sentiment  I  left  that,  and  gave  her  the  truism  instead  that 
eager  livers  must  be  encouraged  to  act  and  not  to  brood. 
And  if  a  month  of  this  town  has  not  brought  home  to  Hen- 
riette's  son  the  full  sweet  rapture  of  the  ruminating  cow, 
no  further  demonstration  of  hers  is  likely  to  do  it.  But  that 
remark  I  left  as  well. 

''  Finally,  I  suggested  she  should  write  to  you ;  hinting 
you  were  flexible  to  a  lady's  wishes,  whatever  she  might 
think.  She  said  she  would  consider  writing,  but  I  do  not 
think  now  that  she  will.  At  least  I  have  laid  the  case  before 
you  fairly,  for  I  admire  the  little  Amazon  in  her  way  very 
much.  She  has  the  sense  too,  I  notice,  not  to  turn  her  rela- 
tions on  to  me.  I  have  talked  with  her  husband  on  the 
general  question  already,  and  though  a  trifle  heavy  to  deal 
with,  he  takes  a  very  sensible  view  on  the  whole.  But 
Reuss's  great  guns,  at  this  stage,  would  be  annoying;  and 
I  believe — I  am  not  certain — she  has  a  considerable  influ- 
ence with  Reuss." 

To  the  son  of  the  family  Savigny  wrote : 

"My  dear  Lucien, — Go  when  you  wish,  do  you  hear? 
We  appear  Sunday :  and  do  not  betray  that  I  keep  the  boy 
with  me  for  one  night  first.  If  I  get  the  young  rested,  and 
you  prepare  the  old  for  some  slight  change,  we  can  avoid 
all  unnecessary  shock.  There  is  nothing  further  to  fear,  so 
sacrifice  yourself  no  longer.  Take  my  blessing  along  with 
you,  and  my  most  grateful  homage  to  Cecile.  Thank  good- 
ness I  had  you  at  call  just  then  to  guard  him,  and  stave  off 


THE    PENALTY  227 

some  of  the  correspondence.  This  sudden  popularity  is 
embarrassing — but  thank  the  Lord  it  never  lasts ;  and  it 
has  occupied  and  gratified  your  father,  at  least,  during  a 
somewhat  difficult  time.  Now  I  shall  be  close  again  to  lend 
a  hand ;  and  Antoine  himself  is  not  incapable,  and  will  save 
him  some  slips  of  memory,  if  they  occur.  In  spite  of  all  the 
trouncing  I  have  of  late  received,  I  cannot  but  think  that 
extra  wits  are  given  you  to  use ;  and  if  by  their  means  you 
can  save  fatigue  to  your  nearest  relations,  you  should  thank 
your  gods.  In  short,  if  the  gosse  cannot  '  manage '  him- 
self for  a  few  recitals — what  is  the  good  of  having  six 
senses  and  three  hands  ?  I  quote  from  the  article  I  enclose, 
which  for  insight,  sentimentality,  and  clownish  wit,  shows 
the  noble  nation  at  its  best." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

LEMONSKI 

Antoine  heard  his  rival,  Lemonski,  play,  the  last  day  before 
he  left  Munich.     It  happened  in  this  wise. 

"You  do  not  mind?"  he  said  pleasantly  to  Reuss,  when 
the  subject  came  up  at  dessert.  "  I  know  the  right  omnibus 
for  that  hall." 

"  Antoine,  what  nonsense !  "  said  everybody. 

"  I  mind  hopelessly,"  said  Reuss.  "  The  last  afternoon, 
too.     Why  the  plague  should  you  want  to  ?  " 

Antoine  explained,  tilting  up  his  chair,  and  resting  his 
hands  against  the  table-edge  the  while.  They  were  thinner 
and  more  supple  than  ever  since  his  illness.  It  was  the 
Swedish  masseur,  apparently,  who  had  spoken  of  Lemonski, 
being  engaged  to  attend  that  gentleman  as  soon  as  he  arrived 
in  the  town.  The  masseur,  disappointingly  taciturn  in  gen- 
eral, had  shown  signs  of  expansion  for  the  first  time  on  this 
subject,  so  Antoine  had  encouraged  him  with  sympathy. 

"  I  don't  think  he  likes  Rudolf  much,"  he  said  reflectively. 

"  You  don't  say  so  ?  "  said  Fritz,  who  loathed  Lemonski. 
"  What  did  he  say  about  him  ?  " 

"  Not  much.  He  said  old  Lemonski  knew  his  work  bet- 
ter than  he  did  when  he  went  there,  and  never  left  him 
alone.  I  expect  Rudolf  was  cross  if  his  father  was  there, 
and  so  Mr  Nordberg  did  not  like  them." 

"  Have  you  seen  Papa  Lemonski,  Antoine?"  said  Reuss, 
stroking  his  beard. 

"  In  Paris,  I  did."  All  unaware,  his  face  changed.  "  He 
was  very  polite  to  me,"  said  Antoine,  "  and  agreeable.  But 
228 


LEMONSKI  229 

he  listened  at  the  door  before  he  came  in;  and  so  Rudolf 
told  him  so,  and  they  called  one  another  a  lot  of  names ; 
and  so  I  came  away.  Mon  Dieu !  "  Antoine  smoothed  his 
hair  back,  as  though  in  remembered  relief.  "  He  is  not  his 
real  father,"  he  concluded,  "  only  he  looks  after  him.  He 
paid  for  Rudolf  when  he  went  to  Moricz."  Then  the  nar- 
rator relapsed  into  reverie,  crumbling  his  bread.  Fritz 
would  have  attacked  him  again,  but  in  reply  to  a  sign  from 
his  younger  sister,  who  was  dining  with  them,  desisted. 
Antoine  appended  to  his  own  thoughts  after  an  interval: 
"  That  is  why  I  want  to  go." 

"  What  is  why  ?  "  snapped  Savigny,  who  disliked  illogical 
discourse. 

The  boy  blushed.  "  Pardon.  You  see,  Mr  Nordberg  had 
Rudolf's  programme.  And  he  plays  the  Polish  dances, 
which  are  Moricz's.     And  it  begins  at  two,  so  that  would 

i  come  about  four.  It  would  not  be  long  to  go  at  four  for 
two  short  things."  His  eyes  appealed  to  Savigny,  who 
seemed  to  take  no  interest,  unless  to  disapprove  as  usual  of 

i   his  restlessness.     He  did  not,  however,  refuse  permission 

j   altogether. 

I       "  Does     your     Swedish     friend     approve     Lemonski's 

i  muscles  ?  "  asked  Clara  lightly. 

I       "  Approve? — I  don't  know.    I  think  he  likes  to  find  things 

i  wrong  with  them,  and  I  expect  Rudolf's  are  very  good. 

':  His  hand  is  good,  because  I  have  seen  it  in  Paris." 
"  Like  yours,  liebchen?  " 

i       "  No,  no.     Bigger  than  mine,  and  different.     It  is  the 

!  other  sort  of  hand,  Moricz  says :  not  better,  but  more  use- 

;  ful." 

"  More  useful  ?  "  his  chorus  cried. 

"  Yes."  Antoine  paused,  as  though  in  doubt  if  he  had 
got  the  word.  "  That  was  what  he  said.  Pie  said  Rudolf 
was  useful  altogether — the  useful  kind." 

"  Can  you  explain  what  Moricz  meant?"  said  Bertha,  in 
the  pause. 

"  I  believe  he  meant  he  did  not  think  much,  he  just  did 


230  SUCCESSION 

things.  And  he  did  not  talk,"  said  Antoine  pensively. 
"  Moricz  prefers  that." 

"  Having  got  the  thinking  done  years  ago,"  Reuss  sug- 
gested, "  he  only  troubles  you  boys  to  lend  him  the  hands." 

"  Yes."  Antoine  regarded  him  fixedly  a  minute,  picking 
up  his  thoughts  again.  It  was  astonishing  how  easily  they 
scattered  now,  if  he  allowed  himself  a  moment's  absence. 
But  with  Savigny  staring,  and  ladies  asking  questions,  the 
effort  must  be  made.  *'  I  had  not  meant  to  speak  of 
Moricz !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  impatience.  "  It  was  Le- 
monski " 

"  Oh,  oh !  Go  on !  "  cried  the  audience,  who  had  been 
breathless  with  attention  from  the  first  appearance  of  the 
name.    The  boy  winced  slightly  from  their  exclamation. 

"  Monsieur  Rudolf  is  useful,"  said  the  sweet-voiced 
Clara.      "Were  you  useless,  my  dear?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was,  in  the  way  he  meant."  A  pause,  the  flow 
stationary  again.  "  I  cannot  show  you,  because  you  do  not 
know  the  way  he  talks.  He  said  I  was  not  a  violin-player 
at  all." 

They  broke  into  laughter.  *'  What  should  you  play, 
darling?    The  tambourine?  " 

"  Oh  no.  He  did  not  mind  my  playing  it.  Only — I  wish 
you  would  talk  about  Rudolf !  "  He  broke  short,  with 
sudden  and  curious  irritation.     "  I  had  meant  to." 

"  Surely  we  have  sat  quite  long  enough  ?  "  suggested  Car- 
lotta.  Rising,  she  dismissed  the  boy  in  her  sisters'  wake 
with  a  touch.  He  went  at  once,  as  though  relieved  to 
escape.  "  You  need  not  all  follow  immediately,"  she  directed 
Fritz  under  her  breath.  "  He  really  cannot  stand  too  many 
at  once.    Why  can  you  not  talk  with  him  one  at  a  time  ?  " 

"  He  interests  us,  my  dear,"  said  her  brother  meekly.  "  I 
would  give  my  head  to  hear  his  true  idea  of  Moricz.  To  the 
devil  with  Lemonski." 

"  You  will  never  get  a  true  idea  of  anyone,"  said  Savigny, 
"  in  the  form  of  a  connected  account.  He  is  worse  than 
ever  now." 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  231 

"  Leave  it  then,  surely,"  said  Carlotta,  and  went  to  rejoin 
her  sisters  in  the  drawing-room.  Antoine  had  retired  to  the 
balcony,  and  was  leaning  over  the  street.  He  was  very  con- 
scious of  having  broken  the  canons  both  of  society  and 
Savigny  in  his  loss  of  temper,  and  was  for  the  moment  out 
of  spirits.  However,  finding  himself  pleasantly  disregarded, 
and  nobody  else  offended  seriously,  he  recovered  his  equa- 
nimity by  degrees;  and  by  the  time  Fritz  arrived  to  sit 
beside  him  near  the  stove,  he  was  prepared  to  shove  his 
bark  into  the  tide  of  general  conversation  again. 

"  Have  you  really  met  the  Lemonskis,  Antoine,  or  were 
you  inventing?"  said  Fraulein  Clara. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  the  boy.  "  Perhaps,"  he  added,  "  I 
shall  speak  to  them  to-morrow  at  the  hall." 

"  That  you  will  not,"  said  Reuss  and  Savigny  together. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu ! "  said  Antoine,  collapsing  with  a  ges- 
ture into  his  sofa  corner.  "  Very  well,  I  will  not.  I  will 
not  go  to  the  concert.  I  will  go  to  bed,  and  drink  some 
tisane,  and — and — listen  to  you  all  talking  together  about 
interesting  things." 

He  followed  the  latter  part  of  this  programme  for  three 
minutes,  shrugging  at  all  questions  directed  to  him,  with 
his  arms  folded.  Then  he  forgot  his  resentment  and  his 
dignity  and  everything  else,  because  Dr  Savigny,  who  had 
his  cigarette  on  the  balcony,  announced  through  the  cur- 
tains, without  any  warning,  that  he  had  been  talking  to 
Lorbeer,  and  that  he  thought  he  must  be  present  at  the  con- 
cert next  day,  since  everybody  seemed  to  agree  the  little 
fellow  was  good. 

"  No,  you  must  not,"  said  Antoine  warmly,  loosening  his 
arms  and  sitting  erect.  "  No,  no.  You  have  never  come 
to  one  of  mine,  and  thrown  away  all  those  nice  tickets ;  and 
you  shall  not  hear  Rudolf  play  the  Romance,  because  I  can- 
not bear  it." 

"  When  I  have  leisure,  I  go  to  any  concert  I  choose," 
began  Savigny,  but  two  ladies  broke  in : 

"  Antoine — you  mean  he  is  playing  Lemaure  ?  " 


232  SUCCESSION 

"Abominable  impudence!"  ejaculated  Fritz.  But  An- 
toine,  his  eyes  levelled  toward  the  balcony,  heeded  neither. 

"  1  cannot  bear  it,"  he  repeated.  "  It  makes  me  feel 
curious — especially  my  heart — to  think  of  it  at  all.  If  you 
go,  you  will  come  away  with  me,  before  the  Romance  at 
the  end." 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Where  thou  goest,  my 
infant,  I  will  go." 

"  Aha — that  is  it,"  said  Antoine,  reassured.  "  You  come 
to  the  hall  to  preserve  me,  hein?  Well,  perhaps  Rudolf  will 
not  mind  if  I  do  not  visit  him.  Of  course,  I  should  only 
say  '  bonjour '  and  '  bravo,'  like  the  other  people.  And  it 
will  be  '  bravo '  if  he  does  those  dances  of  Moricz,"  he 
added. 

"Do  you  mean  Moricz  wrote  the  dances?"  somebody 
ventured  soon,  for  once  more  he  had  relapsed  into  silence. 
The  name  as  used  by  him  seemed  to  be  magical,  spun  about 
with  a  web  of  dreams.  It  only  increased  their  curiosity ; 
yet  the  fear  of  exciting  him  unduly  was  still  so  great  that 
they  dared  not  press  him  too  closely. 

"  Oh  no,  not  his  in  that  way.  He  taught  them.  They 
are  his  things.  They  will  be  good,  of  course :  the  best. 
That  is  why  I  should  like  a  near  place  " — he  appealed  to 
Reuss — "  because  you  cannot  always  see  in  a  big  room,." 

"  Two  places,  then,"  said  Fritz,  with  resignation, 

"  Unless  you " 

"  Thank  you,  my  love.  I  would  go  far  to  escape  it."  He 
rose,  ready  as  ever  to  serve,  though  pained  by  his  obstinacy. 
"  I  will  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  said,  and  went  at  once  to 
the  telephone. 

Late  as  it  was,  his  royal  influence  served,  and  he  got  two 
excellent  seats  for  his  guests  without  difficulty.  They  were 
also  conspicuously  placed,  rather  to  the  side  of  the  lower 
balcony ;  and  Antoine's  extremely  late  arrival  in  the  last 
interval  of  the  programme  and  the  picturesque  tall  doctor  at 
his  side,  were  facts  not  likely  to  reduce  the  sensation  he 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  233 

made.  The  stir  amused  Savigny,  who  had  never  faced  the 
world  with  his  young  friend  before,  and  he  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  situation.  But  he  was  less  amused  when  a  stout 
middle-class  man  in  the  adjacent  box,  with  a  creased  yellow 
neck,  a  Hebrew  nose,  and  little  pig's  eyes  to  either  side  of 
it,  bowed  elaborately  to  Antoine,  in  a  manner  of  over-acted 
reverence,  with  protruding  elbows  and  clasped  hands,  An- 
toine, blinking  in  the  bright  afternoon  sunlight,  gave  him  a 
keen  glance  and  a  cool,  slight  recognition,  before  he  subsided 
into  his  seat. 

"  Zut !  Monsieur  le  pere,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath. 
"  He  comes  to  hear  Moricz  too,  it  seems.  Give  me  that 
glass,  please,  and  talk  to  me.     I  hate  him  very  much." 

Savigny,  being  farthest  from  the  man,  offered  to  change 
sides. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Antoine.    "  Talk  of  a  different  thing.     I 

shall  see  better  here.    Bah !  the  sun  is  a  bother,"    He  turned 

his  head,  brows  bent,  eyes  narrowed  to  the  window,  whence 

an  intruding  dusty  beam  of  autumn  sunlight  obstructed  his 

view  of  the  stage.     Lemonski  senior,  in  the  same  line  of 

I  vision,  though  totally  overlooked,  chose  to  wave  a  hand 

i  towards  the  window,  and  some  person  near  it  leant  over, 

I  and  drew  a  curtain  across  the  beam.    Antoine's  face  changed 

I  charmingly,   in  response  to  this  timely  courtesy,  but  Le- 

'■  monski   intercepted   nothing  of  his   acknowledgment,   and 

might  not  have  been  there,     Savigny  was  amused  by  the 

little  incident,  and  by  the  haughtiness  of  the  boy's  face,  as 

he  turned  again  in  his  direction.    He  had  evidently  become 

aware  of  the  general  curiosity  in  the  interval,  and  after  that 

i  devoted  himself  to  his  glass  and  his  escort,  and  looked 

about  him  no  more. 

"  What  a  long  interval,"  he  muttered.  "  I  wish  he  would 
come.    Aha — there !  " 

As  he  spoke,  all  inconvenient  curiosity  was  diverted  to 

,  the  platform ;   for  Rudolf  Lemonski  walked  on  to  it,  amid 

a  perfect  tumult  of  applause.    Antoine  and  his  neighbour  in 

the  adjacent  box  were  the  only  people  unmoved  by  the  ap- 


234  SUCCESSION 

parition,  Lemonski  pcre  folded  his  fat  arms,  and  looked 
about  him,  frowning  with  pursed  lips.  Here,  said  the  atti- 
tude, was  his  trump  card:  beat  it  who  dared  to  try.  An- 
toine  focussed  his  glass  attentively  meanwhile,  not  on  the 
violinist  at  all,  but  on  the  violin. 

Dr  Savigny  followed  the  general  example.  Having  ap- 
plauded a  little,  he  settled  for  a  comfortable  and  leisurely 
stare  at  the  highly-rated  Polish  prodigy,  most  admirably 
visible  in  every  detail  from  where  they  sat.  Young  Le- 
monski stood  waiting  the  permission  of  his  admirers  to  be- 
gin, with  a  curious  expression,  impassive  almost  to  grim- 
ness.  Except  for  the  necessary  acknowledgment,  and  a  lit- 
tle look  to  left  and  right,  he  hardly  regarded  his  audience. 
He  knew  exactly  what  he  had  to  do,  and  was  certain  in  ad- 
vance of  his  success:  so  certain  that  he  could  afford  to  be 
indifferent.  His  hands  were  certainly  unlike  Antoine's,  thick 
and  square,  as  was  his  build.  His  head  was  well  piled  over 
the  eyes,  but  ran  to  nothing  behind  when  he  turned;  only 
while  he  played,  he  kept  stiffly  fronting  the  audience.  He 
was  dressed  to  look  like  less  than  his  age,  which  was  an 
error,  for  his  face  was  old,  and  the  dreary  expression  made 
it  older.  He  had  that  look  of  the  east  of  Europe,  that  makes 
even  a  child  seem  weary  of  life  before  it  is  born.  Had  it 
not  been  for  that  rather  pitiful  weariness,  it  would  have 
been  a  dangerous  face.  As  it  was,  brow  and  mouth  prom- 
ised temper,  though  he  might  have  learnt  on  occasion  to 
control  it. 

Savigny,  looking  well,  and  listening  not  at  all,  took  him 
to  pieces  at  leisure  and  pronounced  him  very  interesting, 
stored  up  a  number  of  data  for  future  use,  and  then  dropped 
his  eyes  for  sheer  relief  upon  the  boy  at  his  side.  Antoine's 
genuine  youth  was  a  consolation,  as  was  every  easy  move- 
ment. His  "useless"  pair  of  hands  were  very  evident, 
lifted  to  support  and  adjust  the  glass  on  either  side.  All 
the  psychologist's  instincts  loved  them,  and  the  character 
that  even  in  repose  they  expressed.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Savigny  had  a  real  pang  of  curiosity  as  to  Antoine's 


LEMONSKI  23s 

fashion  of  performance.  He  had  always  vigorously  dis- 
claimed any  interest  in  him  on  the  technical  side.  In  his 
heart,  like  all  who  keenly  felt  Antoine's  individuality,  he 
neither  believed  in  his  technical  capacity  very  deeply,  nor 
thought  it  of  great  moment.  He  had  told  himself  often,  at 
least,  that  a  boy  at  the  easy-going  age,  inheriting  such  a 
degree  of  physical  charm,  would  give  himself  no  grain  more 
trouble  than  necessary,  in  scoring  off  the  susceptible  public. 
If  it  were  merely  because  of  the  bond  between  them,  he  was 
inclined  to  depreciate  his  talents  now,  and  exalt  those  of  the 
unattractive  young  alien  before  him. 

The  subject  reminded  him  of  another  point  he  wished  to 
settle,  and  turning  back  to  the  violinist,  he  took  stock  of 
the  effort  needed  in  the  operation.  Playing  a  small  instru- 
ment could  not,  from  the  physical  point  of  view,  be  taken 
seriously,  he  supposed,  yet  the  thick-set  boy  on  the  stage 
was  certainly  giving  himself  some  trouble,  in  the  latter  sec- 
tion of  the  dance.  It  was  an  exhibition  of  blunt  force,  con- 
tained passion,  and  a  kind  of  furious  mechanical  precision, 
quite  impressive  in  its  way,  even  to  a  person  who  cared  for 
none  of  the  sounds  he  made.  It  was  a  very  good  perform- 
ance, the  doctor  supposed,  to  judge  by  Antoine's  rapt  inter- 
est in  it.  Once  the  boy's  nearer  hand  dropped  from  his 
glass,  and  he  struck  the  cushion  of  the  balustrade  with  a 
visible  little  thrill  of  laughter.  His  face  was  hardly  serious 
when  the  first  dance  finished  in  a  perfect  whirl  of  notes, 
and  he  and  Lemonski  relaxed  their  strained  attention 
simultaneously. 

"  Well,"  said  Savigny,  elbows  on  knees,  during  the  ap- 
plause.    "  Was  it  instructive?  " 

"  Good,"  he  assented.  "  I  am  glad  I  came.  They  are  his 
genre — the  other  one  still  more.  You  do  not  mind  waiting 
for  that?" 

"  As  you  will ;  if  they  ever  mean  to  let  him  begin." 

"  He  is  wonderful,"  Antoine  murmured,  his  soft  eyes 
drowning  Lemonski. 


236  SUCCESSION  | 

"  His  manner  Is  wonderfully  disagreeable,"  the  doctor 
grunted. 

"  Manner?"  said  the  boy.    "  But  that  is  Rudolf." 

"  Did  you  not  mean  Rudolf  was  wonderful  ?  " 

Antoine  gave  him  a  glance. 

"  Moricz,"  he  said,  almost  soundlessly,  for  the  applause 
was  at  last  dying  out,  though  constantly  revived  by  those 
who  desired  a  repeat. 

Two  men  had  joined  old  Lemonski  in  the  next  box,  and 
he  was  wiping  his  brow  and  thick  lips  with  a  silk  handker- 
chief, nodding  to  what  they  said  with  a  slight  smile.  But 
it  made  him  look  none  the  pleasanter;  and  when  Rudolf 
entered  on  the  second  solo,  he  was  frowning  restlessly  about 
him  as  before. 

The  second  melody  was  most  dreary  and  strange — Sa- 
vigny's  somewhat  elementary  taste  found  it  hideous ;  it  was 
harmonised  almost  completely  on  the  strings,  without  the 
aid  of  accompaniment,  save  for  a  flat  chord  laid  in  here 
and  there.  It  was,  as  Antoine  recognised  at  least,  supremely 
difficult,  and  the  strange  boy  played  it  marvellously.  An-  | 
toine  gazed  with  the  same  intent  stillness  as  before  through-  ■ 
out,  and  to  the  doctor,  whose  nervous  system  was  affected, 
it  lasted  too  long. 

When  the  boy  took  the  glass  away  at  the  end,  which 
seemed  no  end,  and  for  an  instant  deceived  the  audience 
into  thinking  the  player  would  continue,  he  got  up  and 
withdrew  so  silently  and  suddenly  that  Savigny  did  not  at 
once  discover  his  place  was  empty.  He  followed,  leaving 
the  hall  clamouring  for  an  extra  number,  and  young  Le- 
monski refusing  on  the  platform,  absolutely  dogged  and 
unmoved.  His  "  father  "  was  engaged  in  a  vigorous  low- 
voiced  dispute  with  one  of  his  former  companions. 

"What's  wrong?"  said  the  doctor  sharply  without;  for 
it  was  clear  Antoine  was  controlling  emotion  with  difficulty. 

"  Nothing,"  he  stammered.    "  Wait  here  a  moment."    He    , 
did  so,  getting  his  breath.     He  was  biting  his  lip,  Savigny 
saw,  during  the  pause,  while  the  applause  within  came  to 


L  E  AI  O  N  S  K  I  237 

them,  glancing  furtively  about  in  all  directions,  as  though 
in  spirit  he  longed  to  escape  the  sound.  It  was  new,  and 
exceedingly  interesting  material  for  the  psychologist,  and 
Savigny,  as  a  mere  man,  was  even  a  little  amused.  Various 
members  of  Antoine's  family  had  been  jealous,  and  he  above 
all  had  the  hot  quality  by  direct  inheritance,  for  his  brilliant 
mother  had  never  been  able  to  let  her  rivals  alone. 

The  boy,  suddenly  turning,  interrupted  his  thoughts. 
"  That  is  over,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  Now,  I  must  see 
him." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Savigny.     "  You  need  not." 

"  Yes,  I  have  to.  See,  let  me  go  alone."  He  caught  the 
doctor's  arm,  in  eager  entreaty.  "  It  is  all  right,  with  his 
father  here  in  front.  You  will  watch  here,  for  him  not  to 
come." 

"  Either  I  come,"  said  Savigny,  "  or  you  go  straight 
home.    That  is  the  sensible  course." 

"  Sensible !  "  the  boy  hissed  in  his  face.  "  There  is 
nothing  that  is  sensible  in  the  world,  but  what  is  in  your 
head.  .  .  .  Bah  !  Come  then,"  he  added,  turning  on  his 
heel,  "  and  we  will  see  this  beautiful,  wonderful  Lemonski. 
Come !  " 

"  Mad  with  jealousy,"  Savigny  privately  repeated,  as  he 
followed.  "  Shade  of  Henriette !  It  is  clearly  better  that 
I  go." 

Antoine  had  evidently  chosen  his  moment  well,  as  they 
found  when  they  arrived  at  the  artist's  room.  Nobody  tried 
to  stop  him,  Savigny  observed,  his  own  name  or  that  of 
Reuss  being  sufficient  at  each  intervention.  When  the  hall 
superintendent  introduced  him  into  a  spacious,  curtained 
room,  except  for  the  accompanist,  smoking  in  a  far  corner, 
Rudolf  Lemonski  was  alone,  his  broad  back  turned  to  them 
in  a  window-seat.  He  started  round  as  the  superintendent 
spoke  his  name. 

"  It  is  this  gentleman,"  he  said,  extending  a  card.  His 
manner  to  the  solitary  boy  was  not  polite. 


238  SUCCESSION 

"  Not  now,"  Lemonski  growled,  his  sulky  brows  bent, 
his  eyes  not  even  turning  on  the  card.  "  I'll  see  them  after- 
wards, confound  them." 

The  superintendent  shrugged,  half  to  the  visitors.  "  It 
is  Monsieur  Antoine  Edgell,"  he  announced.  "  Young  pig," 
he  muttered. 

Young  Lemonski  roused,  but  his  frown  did  not  clear. 
He  held  out  a  listless  hand  to  Antoine  without  rising,  and 
said,  "Who's  the  other?"  of  Savigny. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Antoine.    "  M.  Savigny." 

"  French,  eh  ?  "  The  boy's  compressed  mouth  widened 
with  temper.    "  You  speak  Russian  ?  "  he  said  to  Antoine. 

"  No — but  Monsieur  will  go  right  away."  The  doctor 
nodded  to  his  look,  and  retreated  to  a  corner  where  he  could 
watch  the  pair  unremarked. 

They  sat  together,  and  the  curtains  obscured  them  rather. 
Antoine  did  all  the  talking  at  first,  and  the  other  listened, 
supremely  sulky  in  appearance,  spying  at  the  accompanist's 
proceedings,  though  his  queer  little  hght  eyes  shot  to  his 
companion's  face  from  time  to  time.  Then  quite  suddenly, 
as  though  secure  by  the  other  man's  face  of  his  uncom- 
prehension,  he  began  to  talk  in  a  flood  himself.  He  ex- 
pressed himself  with  vigour,  volubility,  and  the  queerest 
accent,  which  prevented  all  but  a  scattered  phrase  or  two 
from  reaching  the  distant  doctor.  There  was  no  doubt  from 
that,  however,  that  he  was  talking  to  an  intimate.  That  he 
was  passionately  accusing  somebody,  also,  there  was  no 
doubt.  His  face  altered  in  an  extraordinary  and  interesting 
fashion.  Antoine  gazed  at  him  wide-eyed,  the  little  lines 
dawning  on  his  brow.  He  got  to  his  feet  too,  very  soon, 
for  the  other  seemed  signing  him  to  go.  Indeed,  Rudolf's 
uncontrolled  gestures  were  as  though  to  drive  him  away. 
At  the  last  he  rose  too,  and  seizing  him  by  both  arms  as 
though  to  inflict  his  confidence  on  an  unwilling  recipient, 
drew  him  behind  the  curtains,  a  trifle  nearer  to  Savigny. 

"Que  veux-tu  que  j'y  fasse?"  he  said  again  and  again, 
almost  shaking  the  slighter  boy  in  his  grasp.     "  Crois-tu 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  239 

que  je  m'amuse  a  ces "    All  the  ensuing  words  were  bad 

ones. 

"  You  hate  our  things,"  said  Antoine,  frowning  still. 

"  And  do  you  not  hate  what  you  cannot  ever  do  ?  They 
are  all  mad.  There  is  no  sense  in  life,  I  say.  And  you  the 
cause  of  it — you !  "  He  hissed  it  in  a  kind  of  triumph, 
gazing  closely  in  his  companion's  eyes.  "  Well,  go.  You 
shall  not  stay  to  see  me  do  it — the  ugly  rubbish  that  you 
write  in  France.    I  will  not  have  you  stay — you  hear?" 

''  I  go  then,"  Antoine  nodded.  "  They  want  me  to,  so 
that  is  right."  Still  in  Rudolf's  clutches,  he  glanced  towards 
Savigny  under  his  lashes. 

"Who  is  he?"  said  Lemonski. 

"  A  doctor  that  I  know." 

"  Aha !  "  He  seemed  to  remember  something.  "  Say — 
thou  hast  been  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  rather." 

"  They  told  me  thou  wast  dying,"  said  Lemonski.  "  I  did 
not  believe  it." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  for  you,  hein  ?  '*  said  Antoine. 

"  To  be  sure  it  might.  But  " — one  blunt  paw  gripped  his 
shoulder — "  do  not  die,  Antoine.  They  wish  it  too  much, 
my "  The  words  he  used,  not  suspecting  himself  over- 
heard, were  again  abominable.  Antoine  did  not  wince.  He 
was  evidently  thinking  too  hard. 

"  And  you  wish — what?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Nothing  but  peace,  now.  Peace,  and  the  chance  to  re- 
pay him.  Only  a  year  or  two — yes,  I  live  for  it.  Say  " — he 
gripped  again — "  you  heard  the  last  dance  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  answered.    "  I  cried." 

"  It  is  dull,"  said  the  young  Pole  grimly.  "  The  other 
sounds  better — more  brilliant — hey?  That,  then,  for  the 
future.    I  shall  not  play  this  again." 

"  Oh,  kill  him!  "  flashed  Antoine.    "  It  is  yours." 

"  Psst !  little  pale  one.  Thou  wouldst  kill  him  for  me, 
perhaps.  But  there  are  better  ways,"  said  Rudolf.  "  Yes — 
I  wait."     He  looked,  standing  sphinx-like,  as  if  he  could 


240  SUCCESSION 

have  waited  for  centuries,  with  the  one  sombre  desire  in  his 
heart. 

Savigny  stirred  impatiently,  and  Antoine  said,  "  I  must 
go." 

"  Yes,  go,"  said  Lemonski  stolidly.  "  You  leave  to-mor- 
row ? — that  is  well.  Better  of  course  if  you  had  never  come. 
We  shall  not  meet  again,  you  comprehend?  "  He  cleft  the 
air  downwards  with  his  hand.  "  It  was  folly  to  come  in 
here — hare-brained  folly,  and  like  you." 

"  He  will  not  know,"  the  boy  suggested. 

"He  does,"  said  young  Rudolf  grimly.  "The  devil 
knows  all  things,  mon  petit.  Run  fast,  hey?— or  he  will 
spike  you.    Adieu,  thou  happy  one !  " 

So  concluding,  he  sought  the  other  boy  near  in  the  win- 
dow embrasure,  and  embraced  him  on  both  cheeks,  pushing 
him  roughly  out  the  instant  after,  and  falling  back  into  his 
original  sulky  attitude. 

Savigny  was  annoyed  with  Antoine  without,  for  he 
walked  along  with  his  eyebrows  raised,  saying  nothing  at 
all.  He  had  his  haughtiest  little  air  of  independence,  and 
was  simultaneously  quite  unaware  where  he  was  going.  He 
missed  the  curb-stones,  and  had  to  be  pushed  from  under 
the  cabs.  Vexed  in  addition  by  these  proceedings,  the  doctor 
desired  to  stamp  on  him,  but,  since  he  refused  to  speak, 
had  no  chance.  He  was  prepared  for  all  things,  as  usual, 
except  such  a  mood ;  and  when  the  boy  stopped  short  of  a 
sudden,  and  complained  sharply  that  he  was  hungry, 
Savigny  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  acting.  However, 
since  the  exhaustion  of  his  looks  was  certainly  well  done, 
he  laid  a  strong  hand  on  his  shoulder  for  safety's  sake, 
paused,  and  consulted  his  watch. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  said,  screwing  his  eye  at  all 
the  places  of  refreshment  in  sight,  and  in  Munich  there  are 
many. 

"  Some  beer  would  be  good,"  murmured  Antoine,  regard- 
ing the  sky.  Now,  the  suggestion,  as  it  chanced,  fell  happily, 
for  Savigny  himself  was  fond  of  beer.    Ten  minutes  later, 


L  E  :M  O  N  S  K I  241 

when  they  were  reposing  in  retirement  and  security  on  the 
terrace  of  a  restaurant,  he  took  a  survey  of  his  charge,  and 
decided  that  the  stamping  process  might  begin,  without  risk 
of  his  fainting  by  the  way.  Antoine  had  eaten  and  drunk, 
though  beer  made  no  part  of  his  collation ;  and  there  was 
a  little  more  colour  in  his  lips,  and  less  wild  diablerie  in 
his  expression,  in  consequence.  Savigny,  toying  with  a  long 
glass,  thought  that  it  would  do. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  meet  such  canaille,"  he  announced, 
with  authority.  "  It  is  useless  and  foolish  both.  Your 
grandfather  would  be  vexed  to  hear  of  it." 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Antoine  carelessly. 

"  Flippancy  is  a  form  of  pretence,"  said  Savigny. 

"  I  mean,  if  grandpapa  is  vexed,  it  does  not  matter." 

"What's  that?"  said  Savigny. 

"  He  does  not  beat  me,"  said  Antoine,  turning  his  eyes 
aside,  and  snapping  his  fingers  to  a  small  dog  that  ap- 
proached them.    There  was  a  pause. 

"That  cub's  ill-treated,  is  he?"  said  Savigny,  shifting 
ground  a  trifle. 

"Did  I  say  it?"  said  Antoine,  and  laughed.  "He  is  a 
horrible  boy.  I  myself  am  happy — you  heard  him  perhaps 
say  that?  " 

"  I  heard,"  said  the  doctor,  scratching  his  chin.  It 
seemed  rather  useless  attempting  to  stamp  on  such  mercurial 
substance. 

"  You  say  it  too,  hein  ?  "  said  Antoine.  "  I  am  spoilt. 
Everybody  is  kind — you,  for  instance."  He  caught  at  his 
sleeve  persuasively. 

"  Kindness  itself,"  Savigny  growled.  "  They  come  from 
Paris  when  you  are  ill,  and  take  you  back  whether  you  will 
or  no." 

"  Yes.  Did  you  do  that  ?  Only  if  one  is  really  happy — • 
it  does  not  matter." 

"  You  are  an  oddity,"  said  Savigny,  giving  it  up.  "  I'll 
talk  to  you  when  you  are  sober." 


242  SUCCESSION 

"  Merci,"  said  Antoine.  "  Chut,  sois  sage  " — to  the  dog. 
Sobriety  descended  on  the  company. 

Presently,  over  the  beer — which  was  excellent — Savigny 
tried  again.  It  struck  him  that  the  chance  was  good  to  get 
some  questions  answered,  without  a  curious  and  critical 
audience  of  women.  He  had  been  storing  up  questions  for 
many  days,  and  the  afternoon's  somewhat  unusual  expe- 
rience had  ripened  some  for  the  asking.  Antoine  had  eaten 
another  piece  of  cake,  and  looked  serener  in  consequence — 
indeed  almost  normal. 

*'Were*you  happy  with  Moricz,  Antoine?"  he  said. 

"  With  whom  ?  "  said  Antoine,  who  was  feeding  the  small 
dog  with  cake. 

"  Come,  you  are  not  deaf.  Perhaps  I  pronounced  it 
wrong." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  I  was — more  happy  with  him  than 
Rudolf  was.    He  gave  me  a — a  very  nice  certificate." 

"  Thank  you.  That  is  what  I  wished  to  know."  A  pause, 
the  dog  being  absorbing. 

"  What  are  you,"  said  Savigny,  addressing  the  back  of 
his  head,  "  if  you  are  not  a  violin  player?  " 

"Is  that  beer  not  nice?"  said  Antoine,  turning. 

"  The  best  I  ever  tasted.  I  shall  have  some  more.  I  know 
I  am  an  amateur,  my  child ;  I  might  even  be  called  an  out- 
sider, in  art.  But  comparing  you  with  that  ugly  boy  to-day, 
and  never  having  heard  you  perform  yourself,  it  was  natural 
to  debate  the  point.    You  can  play  the  violin,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can  play  the  violin.  And  Rudolf  is  a  violin  player. 
I  suppose  it  is  different,  for  Moricz." 

"  Did  they  make  as  much  noise  over  you  as  they  made 
over  him  to-day  ?  " 

"  A  pen  pres,"  said  Antoine.  "  Tiens,  that  is  well  caught  " 
— to  the  dog. 

"  Yet  I  suppose  this  Moricz  meant  you  did  not  play  so 
well." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  assented  Antoine.  "  My  certificate  was 
longer  than  his.    Grandpapa  has  got  it." 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  243 

"  You  admired  this  Moricz — found  him  wonderful,  you 
said.    Well  then,  the  opinion  could  not  have  been  nonsense." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Antoine  cordially.  "  Moricz  was  very 
clever.  For  an  extremely  old  man,  the  most  you  can  imagine. 
But  very  often  he  said  curious  things,"  he  added  lightly. 

"  Curious,  eh  ?    You  thought  it  odd  ?    Or  silly  ?  " 

"  He  was  not  silly  that  day,"  said  Antoine,  as  though 
recollecting  with  difficulty. 

"  Were  you  ofifended  ?  " 

"  No."  In  the  lightest,  dryest  tone  imaginable.  He 
turned  impatient  eyes  to  the  beer-glass,  which  was  but  half 
drained. 

"  Did  he  imply  that  you  began  too  late  ?  "  said  Savigny, 
drinking  a  little. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Antoine,  struck  with  the  idea.  "  I  was 
four  when  I  began.    You  did  not  know  me  then." 

"  I  saw  you  at  two  years  old,"  said  Savigny,  actually 
diverted  by  this  happy  attempt. 

"  Oh — perhaps  it  was  someone  else,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Not  likely.  You  were  in  your  grandfather's  study — ■ 
and  in  your  mother's  arms.  She  handed  you  to  me  while 
she  put  on  her  gloves.  Anybody  would  have  done,"  said 
Savigny,  "  but  I  happened  to  be  there." 

*' Did  I  cry?"  said  the  boy,  scanning  him,  slightly  inter- 
ested. 

"  On  the  contrary.  You  appeared  relieved  at  the  ex- 
change. The  gloves  were  new,  and  you  were  comparatively 
old,  which  I  suppose  was  the  reason." 

A  pause.  "  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  Antoine,  relaxing 
after  the  effort.  "  It  was  not  our  own  study,  in  the  Avenue, 
or  I  should.     Shall  we  go  home  now  ?  " 

"  When  I  have  finished,"  said  Savigny,  tapping  his  glass. 
"  Listen.    That  fellow  to-day  hated  Moricz,  didn't  he?  " 

"  Yes.    Rudolf  hates  everyone." 

"Did  you?" 

"Hate  Moricz?    No."    Deep  melancholy  dawned  on  his 


244  SUCCESSION 

expressive  face.  "  I  shall  only  be  very  glad,"  said  Antoine, 
lower,  "  when  I  hear  that  he  is  dead." 

"  Bah !  "  said  Savigny,  with  impatience.  "  You  are  elud- 
ing me  again.  That  means,  Antoine,  you  have  something 
to  conceal,  hey?"    The  boy  had  come  to  his  side. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  he  said  gently.  "  That  beer  is  quite 
done." 

"  I  might  have  another — and  get  it  out  of  you.  You  know 
I  could  if  I  wished,  don't  you?" 

"  You  do  not  wish,"  said  the  boy  breathlessly.  Savigny 
put  an  arm  about  him. 

"  Are  you  still  happy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Are  you  ? "  said  Antoine,  as  with  a  last  effort  of  his  in- 
tellect after  a  pause  of  great  strain. 

Savigny  paid  the  bill,  kicked  away  the  dog,  which  seemed 
strongly  inclined  to  follow  them,  and  they  left  the  restau- 
rant, no  doubt  by  an  oversight,  without  either  of  these 
questions  being  answered. 

"  Tell  us  a  story,  Antoine,"  suggested  Reuss  that  evening, 
when  certain  guests  had  gone.  Lorbeer  had  been  enticed 
from  his  work,  and  his  family  to  meet  them,  and,  assisted 
rarely  by  the  ladies,  they  had  been  discussing  personalities 
up  and  down  in  their  fashion,  with  much  smoking,  copious 
beer,  and  roars  of  Titanic  laughter.  Antoine  had  been 
bored,  and  had  hardly  spoken  during  the  evening.  On  the 
eve  of  quitting  the  friendly  household,  depression  was  very 
natural,  and  the  Fraulein  Reuss's  had  been  very  kind  to  him, 
and  not  tried  much  to  disturb  what  was  probably  a  senti- 
mental reverie,  both  creditable  and  flattering. 

"  Show  us  what  you  can  do  in  German,"  Lorbeer 
prompted.    "  A  last  exhibition." 

"  Oh,  bah !  "  said  Antoine,  who  was  thinking,  curled  up 
in  the  shadow  by  the  window.  "  I  can't  make  things  up 
to-night." 

"  Antoine  is  feeling  truthful,"  said  Fritz.  "  Beware,  oh 
my  friends." 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  245 

"  He  is  still  out  of  temper,"  said  the  doctor  drily.  "  It 
was  a  little  too  good  this  afternoon." 

"  Aha !    We  have  it,"  Fritz  cried. 

"  It  is  so,  indeed,"  said  Fraulein  Clara.  "  You  have  not 
told  us  the  truth  yet  about  Lemonski." 

The  boy  roused  at  the  voice.  "  He  is  the  best  artist  I 
ever  heard,"  he  said,  in  an  odd,  slow  tone.  "  Though,  of 
course,  I  have  not  heard  many  concerts." 

"  Dear  child,"  the  serious  sister  intervened.  "  We  really 
want  to  know  your  opinion." 

"  Yes,  I  am  trying  to.  Let  me  think  what  I  have  heard," 
said  Antoine.  "  He  is  better  than  Winthner,  and  Abel,  and 
Charretteur,  and  Laribe " 

"  And  Lemaure,"  Reuss  supplied, 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Antoine,  pausing.  "  I  never  heard  him 
play,  when  he  was  young.  Well  " — he  jerked  about  at  the 
general  derisive  outcry — "  do  you  want  me  to  say  what  is 
true? — ^because  I  am  trying  to.    I  had  much  rather  not  talk." 

"  Dearest,  you  shall  not.  Go  to  sleep.  Your  opinion  on 
the  subject  is  worthless,  evidently." 

Antoine  collapsed  again  and  shut  his  eyes,  and  the  doctor, 
by  request  of  the  sisters,  took  up  the  tale.  Character  was 
a  high  question  to  Savigny ;  and  he  turned  over  his  sheaf 
of  data,  finger-tips  meeting,  before  he  spoke. 

"  He  is  not  uninteresting  to  watch,"  he  began,  "  though  he 
stands  like  a  block.  I  should  say  the  muscular  machinery 
is  good,  though  his  legs  have  lost  their  spring,  and  he  walks 
badly.  The  brain  is  well  developed,  though  the  balance,  to 
judge  on  sight,  is  defective.  Mentally,  he  has  few  facets." 
Savigny  looked  at  Clara,  who  seemed  able  to  translate  him, 
and  was  much  impressed.  Unable,  however,  to  bear  her 
solemnity,  he  went  off  at  a  tangent.  "  Now,  your  artistic 
people,"  he  observed,  "  are  nothing  but  facets.  Surface 
glitter,  Madame.  Consequently,  Lemonski  is  not  artistic." 
Having  produced  a  laugh,  he  proceeded.  "  Spiritually,  the 
fellow  is  harder  to  judge,  for  it  is  not  an  expressive  mask, 
and  his  pose  is  deliberately,  I  should  say,  that  of  a  blank 


246  SUCCESSION 

wall.  Hard  as  nails,"  said  Savigny.  "  Ambitious  and  self- 
centred.  His  hands,  set  of  mouth,  and  manner  of  speech 
are  alike  perfectly  vulgar.  Well  " — for  Antoine  in  the 
corned  jerked  anew — "  if  his  expressions  to  you  to-day  were 
not  vulgar,  what  were  they  ?  " 

"  The  word  seems  silly  to  me,"  said  the  boy,  with  dis- 
arming mildness.  "  Never  mind."  Whereat  the  critic 
promptly  turned  on  him. 

"  Personal  criticism  always  makes  Antoine  wriggle,"  he 
told  the  company.  "  All  epithets  that  are  the  least  dis- 
criminating, applied  to  persons,  are  silly,  according  to  him. 
He  has  no  objection  to  classing,  but  he  will  not  define. 
People  for  instance  may  be  good  or  bad,  may  they  not  ?  " 

Reuss  took  up  the  tale.  "  Clever  or  the  reverse,"  he  sug- 
gested, "  beautiful  or  ugly.  I  presume  Lemonski  is  beauti- 
ful?" 

"  He  is  like  a  pig,"  said  Antoine,  bored.  "  I  have  said 
that  heaps  of  times." 

"  There  might  be  beautiful  pigs,"  said  Savigny,  "  in  your 
world.  To  continue  the  list,  people  may  be  agreeable — 
curious — horrible — and  amusing.    Am  I  correct  ?  " 

"  You  are  horrible,"  said  Antoine  succinctly.  "  I  am  tired 
of  this.    You  must  talk  about  Lemonski  again." 

"  Well,  was  I  correct  about  Lemonski  ?  Come,  lend  me  a 
hand." 

The  boy  laid  a  hand  across  his  eyes  before  he  spoke. 
"  Certainly  Lemonski  is  vulgar,"  he  said.  "  Moricz  was 
also  a  vulgar  man.  He  said  all  those  same  ugly  things. 
Because  he  and  Rudolf  are  not  French,  do  you  understand? 
And  so,  especially  when  they  are  in  a  hurry,  they  say  the 
words  they  learn.  Doctors  like  you,"  said  Antoine,  warm- 
ing rapidly,  "  clever  old  French  doctors — do  not  talk  to 
them  in  the  evening,  and  show  them  beautiful  words  to  use 
about  people,  until  the  people  all  look  quite  different.  Now 
listen :  it  does  not  matter  what  Lemonski  is  really  like,  a  ce 
qu'il  parait " 


LEMONSKI  247 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  us,"  said  Fritz,  comically  ward- 
ing as  he  stood  suddenly  erect. 

"  No,"  said  Antoine.  "  So  I  will  make  up  some  funny 
things  about  him,  and  '  raconter,'  as  you  said.  I  can  better 
now."  After  standing  a  minute  with  a  slight  frown,  he 
came  across  to  Reuss's  side.  Everyone  in  the  room  was 
silent,  surprised  at  the  signs  of  emotion,  evident  in  the  full 
light.  They  had  all  been  teasing  as  usual,  quite  unconscious 
that  he  was  suffering,  or  even  attending  closely. 

"  Good,"  said  Fritz,  gathering  him  in,  "  he  is  drawn. 
Talk  to  us,  and  we  will  tease  you  about  the  pig-faced  boy 
no  longer." 

"  No,  I  must  talk  of  him  a  little.  But  you  ask,"  he  added, 
with  his  singular  childishness,  "  because  it  makes  it  so  long, 
to  talk  alone." 

"  Between  ourselves,"  said  Fritz,  making  room  for  him, 
"  we  are  not  really  interested  in  the  subject." 

'*  Yet  he  is  interesting,"  said  Antoine  positively. 
'  Voyons !  "  He  touched  Fritz's  cheek  with  an  inviting 
inger.    "  You  are  to  ask." 

"  Where  did  your  lordship  meet  him  first?"  said  Reuss, 
entering  the  game  with  a  good  grace,  having  made  sure  of 
lis  playmate. 

"  At  a  lady's  house,"  said  Antoine,  settling  contentedly. 
'  We  both  hated  the  lady  rather,  so  we  began  to  talk." 

"About  her?" 

"  She  was  not  listening,"  said  Antoine.  "  She  had  long 
hings  in  her  ears.  Besides,  grandpapa  was  talking  just 
hen,  so  they  were  happy  together." 

"  Eh,  bien?  "  said  Reuss,  as  he  stopped  short. 

"  Eh  bien — when  it  was  finished  about  Madame  Ber- 
rand,"  Antoine  covered  his  mouth  with  his  hand.  His 
'  story  "  was  open  to  pitfalls. 

"  Did  you  agree  on  an  epithet  ?  "  inquired  Savigny,  be- 
oming  interested. 

"  No,"  said  Antoine.  "  Only  I  laughed  at  the  thing  he 
aid.     Well,  when  it  was  done,  Rudolf  said  that  Russian 


248  SUCCESSION 

sweets  were  very  good,  and  if  I  came  round  to  his  hotel,  he 
would  give  me  some.  So  of  course  I  went.  Only  my  uncle 
went  too,  and  there  were  heaps  of  people,  and  Monsieur  le 
Papa  was  polite  to  me,  and  Rudolf  was  rude  to  both  of  us, 
and  there  were  no  sweets,  and  so  it  was  '  rate '  completely." 
A  pause  to  get  his  breath,  and  prepare  his  grammar  against 
accidents.  "  So  next  day  I  was  going  past  the  hotel  to  meet 
my  uncle  at  the  library,  and  copy  some  old  things,"  he 
recommenced  fluently,  "and  what  did  I  see?"  He  slid  a 
hand  up  to  Fritz  again. 

"  Invent  it  rapidly,"  said  his  friend.  "  We  are  in  sus- 
pense." 

"  I  saw  Monsieur  le  Papa  going  out  in  a  taxi-auto.  No 
Rudolf,  hein?" 

"  Ha !  So  Lucien  waited  at  the  library  in  vain,  and  left 
the  old  things  uncopied,  and  came  home  raging.  Is  that 
the  end?" 

"  There  is  some  before  that,"  said  Antoine,  stopping  him 
hurriedly.  "  There  is  something  you  cannot  guess.  Rudolf 
is  a  boy  who  climbs  very  well." 

"  Climbs?  "  queried  Bertha. 

"To  be  sure,  my  dear,"  said  Reuss.  "They  are  both 
good  climbers  for  their  age." 

"No,  no,"  said  Antoine.  "Real  climbing,  like  a  ship. 
Rudolf  is  clever  to  do  it.  We  talked  together  first,  for  a 
long  time " 

"  About  ladies  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  No,   about  Rudolf.     He   was  angry   that   day — some 

rather  awful  things "     He  lifted  his  sincere  eyes  to 

Reuss's  face. 

"  We  do  not  ask  for  details,"  the  friend  said  gently.  "  I 
never  doubted  he  had  a  hard  time,  liebchen.  We  are  not 
heartless." 

"  No.  Only  it  was — worse.  Of  course,  his  words  are 
bad."  He  took  a  minute  to  swallow  down  the  recollection 
and  proceeded.  "  You  will  make  that  up,"  he  said,  with  a 
gesture.    "  After  it,  he  went  out  of  the  window — ^yes  " — as 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K I  249 

the  ladies  ejaculated — "  and  all  over  the  balconies — it  was 
amusing  to  see,  only  I  was  frightened.  But  he  is  very 
strong — muscular  " — a  withering  droop  of  the  head  to  Dr 
Savigny — "  and  he  went  into  the  window  of  his  father's 
room." 

"  Antoine !    What  next  ?  " — from  Clara. 

"  Why  not  the  ordinary  way  ?  "  inquired  Fritz.  "  Just 
to  make  a  better  story  ?  " 

"Yes;  for  that.  The  door  was  locked,  outside  in  the 
passage.  He  had  locked  Rudolf's  violin,"  said  Antoine, 
clinging  to  Fritz's  coat,  "  because,  if  Rudolf  had  it,  he  be- 
lieved he  would  run  away.  And  he  had  locked  the  sweets 
too,  though  they  were  given  to  Rudolf ;  and  all  the  money 
always — because  he  is  a  careful  man.     Wasn't  it  awful  ?  " 

"  Terrific,"  said  Reuss,  unmoved.  "  The  cunning  little 
criminal.    And  you  abetted  him  in  stealing,  hey?" 

"  We  ate  the  sweets,"  said  Antoine  slowly,  and  his 
strained  face  relaxed.  "He  let  me  have  quite  a  lot.  And 
he  played  his  '  airs '  for  me,  some  very  beautiful  ones.  And 
in  between  them  he  talked  to  me  a  good  deal.  And  then 
his  father  came — stealing  in  with  his  beautiful  boots — and 
it  all  finished  horribly  like  I  told  you  yesterday.  He  is  an 
awful  man.  He  said  my  good  grandfather  had  not  warned 
him  that  I  should  call." 

"  And  oddly  enough,"  said  Reuss,  "  you  had  not  warned 
your  good  grandfather." 

"  Grandpapa  said  afterwards,"  observed  Antoine,  "  that 
it  would  have  been  easy  to  telephone  to  the  library,  if  I  had 
wanted  to  be  polite." 

"  What  did  you  retort  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Antoine.  "  You  can't  say  anything, 
when  he  talks  like  that.  I  don't  think  he  had  much  wanted 
me  to  see  Rudolf." 

"  I  told  you  so !  "  said  Savigny.  There  was  a  pause,  the 
company  turning  over  the  new  evidence,  as  was  clear  in 
their  faces. 


250  SUCCESSION 

"  Does  your  Lemonski  steal  money,  as  well  as  sweets  ?  '* 
said  Fritz,  crumpling  his  beard. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Antoine  guardedly.  "  If  he  works  for 
his  father,  hein?  And  he  does  work,  late  into  the  night 
sometimes.  He  told  me  this,  Rudolf :  that  some  day,  when 
he  had  got  money  enough,  and  was  tired  of  the  concerts, 
he  would  steal  the  violin,  and  go  back  to  Warsaw,  and  play 
in  the  roads  like  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  very  little, 
when  his  father  found  him.  He  says  the  people  are  kind 
there,  and  he  could  play  his  airs  for  them.  It  would  be 
cold,  but  he  is  happier  like  that.  Are  you  tired  of  this 
story  ? " 

"  It  is  illuminating,"  said  Fritz.  "  He  composes,  Antoine? 
Improvises,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Oh — anything  he  likes,  when  he  has  the  violin. 
Perhaps,"  said  Antoine,  pausing,  "  it  was  more  wonderful 
to  me  then,  because  he  had  been  to  Moricz,  and  I  had  not. 
But  n'importe:   it  was — the  beautiful  playing." 

The  company  was  silent.  Perforce,  by  his  clenched 
hands,  bitten  lip,  and  calm  brow  as  he  gazed  before  him, 
they  believed. 

"  He  did  some  horrible  little  things  in  grandpapa's  pas- 
sages," Antoine  resumed  of  a  sudden,  "  but  that  was  to 
make  me  angry.  He  laughed  when  I  minded.  He  is  me- 
chant,  Rudolf,  with  his  little  eyes." 

Profound  silence  again. 

"  I  think,  altogether  " — he  summed  up  his  reflections — 
"  he  is  the  best  I  have  heard.  I  am  sure  Moricz  thought  so 
too." 

"  What  did  Moricz  say  of  Lemonski  ? "  said  Reuss 
brusquely. 

"  He  said,  for  a  performing  beast,  he  was  clever.  You 
see,"  Antoine  hastened  to  explain,  as  his  audience  laughed, 
"  Moricz  likes  to  hurt  people  when  he  talks.  And  Rudolf 
standing  there  with  his  face  stiff,  and  his  feet  like — like  a 
bear  dancing,  would  annoy  him  certainly.  When  Rudolf 
got  home  he  cried,  but  he  did  not  tell  Moricz  that." 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  251 

"How  often  did  Moricz  make  thee  cry?"  said  Reuss, 
putting  a  large  paw  under  his  chin. 

"  He  was  different,  with  me,"  said  Antoine,  frowning, 
"  Tenez !  "  He  took  a  sudden  and  mighty  resolution.  "  I 
will  tell  you  the  worst  about  Moricz,  since  I  think  you  are 
curious  to  know."  Looking  about  his  circle,  he  gathered 
himself  for  an  effort.  Breathless  expectation  on  the  part 
of  the  Reuss  family,  sly  triumph  on  that  of  Savigny.  He 
thought  he  had  his  finger  on  the  central  miscreant  at  last. 

"  Moricz,"  said  Antoine  slowly,  "  is  a  man  with  dreadful 
ideas.  This  is  one.  When  he  has  quite  finished  a  pupil  he 
takes  hold  of  them  so,  pinching  with  his  fingers,  and  says 

this:   'You  have  been  with  me '  a  gesture  of  hand  for 

the  period.  *  You  cannot  go  further,  because  there  is  no 
further  to  go.  I  am  Moricz,  and  I  have  finished  you.  Now,' 
he  says,  '  look  ahead,  my  most  accomplished.  What  do  you 
see  there,  on  the  road?  You  are ,'  a  slight  shrug  sug- 
gested the  pupil's  age — "  Rudolph  himself  was  twelve,  I 
think — or  eleven." 

"  Pauvre  petit,"  Fritz  muttered.  His  broad  hand  was 
across  his  face,  his  elbow  on  the  couch-back  now. 

"  You  see,"  said  Antoine,  glancing  at  him  with  a  nod. 
"  Moricz  says,  look  ahead  at  all  those  years — what  is  the 
good  of  all  your  trouble?  A  qiioi  bonf — he  said.  And 
Rudolf  said  the  same  to  me  that  day  when  he  had  finished 
playing.    A  quoi  bon,  tout  cela?  " 

"  I  doubt  if  our  friend  had  to  be  taught  that,"  said 
Savigny,  "even  at  eleven  years  old." 

"  But  it  makes  it  worse!  "  cried  Antoine. 

"  It  does,"  said  Fritz.  "  The  cunning  old  tormentor." 
He  turned  it  over  a  little,  his  good  face  rather  grave,  for 
this  was  a  question  of  a  child.  It  had  not  struck  him  before 
in  that  light. 

Antoine  nodded,  satisfied.  His  "  story,"  though  a  longer 
method  of  demonstration  than  Savigny's,  seemed  to  have 
the  effect  he  desired.  Every  one  in  the  room  was  thinking 
in  the  right  way  now  about  Rudolf.     This  was  an  artistic 


252  SUCCESSION 

satisfaction,  though  such  an  effect  was  nearly  as  exhausting 
as  a  long  concert  to  produce. 

"And  what  didst  thou  do,"  said  Reuss,  dropping  the 
hand  from  his  brow  and  taking  Antoine's  wrists,  "  when 
the  fiend  said  those  pretty  things?  You  have  made  Le- 
monski's  case  out  very  completely,  for  our  benefit.  Make 
us  now  your  own." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Antoine,  somewhat  annoyed.  "  He  did 
not  say  those  things  to  me.  You  understand,  I  have  been 
telling  you  about  Lemonski,  who  is  an  artist — upon  the 
violin." 

"We  understand  too  well  both  his  artistry  and  thy 
obstinacy,"  said  Fritz.  "  But  we  here  are  not  of  his  faction, 
as  it  happens.  We  are  thy  friends.  When  he  addressed  to 
thee  his  parting  blessing,  his  charming  '  a  quoi  bon  ' — what 
didst  thou  say?  Something  notable,  we  are  sure." 
f  "  I  could  not  answer,"  said  the  boy,  "  because  he  did  not 
say  it."  He  put  a  hand  to  his  head,  a  common  gesture  since 
his  illness.    "  It  is  you  who  are  obstinate,  I  think." 

"  His  own  wit  is  not  worth  noting,"  said  Lorbeer,  smoking 
solemnly. 

"  I  remember  it  all  very  well,"  said  Antoine  proudly. 

"  You  were  crying  too  much  to  hear  the  question,"  mur- 
mured Reuss. 

"  No,  not  the  last  day."  He  bit  his  lip  consciously  as 
they  smiled.  "  It  was  just,"  he  repeated,  "  that  he  did  not 
say  it." 

"Why  did  he  not?" 

"  What  I  asked,  Reuss,"  Savigny  mentioned.  "  Why  were 
you  not  worth  it,  Antoine?    What's  the  difference?" 

"  Mon  Dieu,  you  are  curious  people,"  said  Antoine  hope- 
lessly, in  his  own  tongue.  "  Oh  well,  listen,  here  is  a  thing 
I  have  just  made.  Moricz  was  older  with  me — a  fearfully 
old  man — and  so  I  expect  that  he  forgot." 

It  speaks  oddly  for  a  company  of  whom  two  were  dis- 
tinguished musicians,  and  all  the  rest  but  one  distinguished 


L  E  M  O  N  S  K  I  253 

amateurs,  that  it  was  the  one,  the  inartistic  doctor,  who 
came  nearest  on  that  occasion  to  reaching  the  opinion  that 
he  avoided  reporting  so  obviously,  and  so  childishly  ex- 
plained. Even  Savigny  did  not  get  all  the  way,  until  cir- 
cumstances drove  him  to  do  so ;  though  he  stored  up  some 
useful  impressions,  and  two  undoubted  facts.  There  had 
been  an  understanding  between  the  aged  expert  and  his 
latest  pupil,  that  no  abuse  or  mockery  had  subsequently  been 
able  to  shake ;  and  further — some  other  agency  than  that 
of  Moricz  had  been  needed  to  produce  this  last  and  most 
serious  convulsion  to  his  health  and  happiness. 


PART   II 
THE   SECOND    CAMPAIGN 


I 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  BAD  SUBJECT 

"  By  the  way,  Louis,"  said  Savigny,  "  did  that  young  devil 
give  trouble  before  he  left?" 

Savigny  was  in  his  glory,  and  his  own  clinique.  His 
hair  was  on  end,  likewise  his  coat  lay  on  the  floor,  and  a 
quill-pen  was  stuck  behind  his  right  ear.  This  was  his 
working  costume,  when  not  besieged  by  unwelcome  clients 
and  the  fashionable  world.  The  hour  was  eleven-thirty, 
or  a  little  after;  for  he  and  his  fidus  Achates,  Dr  Bronne, 
were  having  a  midnight  sitting  over  the  notes  of  some  un- 
usually interesting  cases  of  the  year,  carefully  picked, 
which  were  undergoing  sorting  and  minute  correction,  be- 
fore taking  their  final  place  in  the  quarterly  journal  of  the 
research  society.  Savigny  and  Bronne  were  both  good 
workers  in  their  different  ways,  the  one  swift  and  vigorous 
in  method,  the  other  patient  and  minutely  conscientious. 
Nor  did  they  quarrel  ever,  for  Bronne  did  that  which 
Savigny  desired,  and  frequently  took  the  blame  in  addition, 
when  the  course  was  ill  advised. 

The  doctor  in  chief  had  been  back  for  nearly  a  month 
and  was  only  now  beginning  to  get  abreast  with  the  work 
postponed  during  his  absence  and  piled  up  for  him.  Least 
of  all,  owing  to  the  pressing  claims  of  out-patients,  and 
the  inanities  of  fine  ladies  who  insisted  on  believing  in  him, 
in  spite  of  careful  discouragement,  had  he  been  able  to 
bring  himself  up  to  date  with  the  "  internat,"  the  hospital 
department  under  Bronne's  charge,  which  he  organised, 
interfered  wifh,  and  subjected  to  criticism  at  intervals. 

257 


258  SUCCESSION 

"  Charretteur,  you  mean  ?  Trouble  is  not  the  word,"  said 
Bronne,  in  his  slow,  fine  accent.  "  I  think  the  staff  up  there 
were  pleased  to  see  the  last  of  him.  I  have  heard  on  the 
authority  of  two  of  them  that  he  drank  a  glass  of  brandy  to 
your  health  before  he  left.  I  imagine,  in  fact,  that  he 
threatened  to  do  so,  as  soon  as  he  got  outside." 

"  Well,  I  imagine  he  will  not,"  said  Savigny  grimly.  "  I 
got  my  knife  far  enough  in  to  last  for  a  bit  at  least.  The 
thing's  a  bother  altogether.  We've  missed  fire,  which  I 
hate.  You  couldn't  manage  him,  eh?"  He  looked  at  his 
young  friend,  whose  gentle  and  rather  finicking  appearance 
belied  his  strength,  both  physical  and  moral. 

"  I  knocked  him  down,"  said  Dr  Bronne  apologetically, 
leaning  back.  "  That  is,  once.  There  was  nobody  to  see,  I 
made  sure  of  that." 

"  Ha !  "  Savigny  got  up,  awakened  and  amused.  "  A 
fight,  under  a  hospital  roof?  Look  here,  do  you  suppose 
that's  medicine?" 

"  He  had  finished  insulting  me,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  exam- 
ining the  point  of  his  pen,  which  was  unsatisfactory,  "  and 
begun  upon  the  system.  He  said  things  I  knew  you  would 
not  have  borne,  had  you  been  there.  So  I  waited  for  the 
right  point,  and  gave  him  the  lie." 

"Quietly?" 

"  As  I  am  speaking  now." 

"  And  then  he  struck  you,  hey  ?  " 

"  On  the  spot,"  said  Bronne.  "  I  liked  the  way  he 
did  it:  prompt  muscle-action,  and  plenty  of  self-control. 
I  said  to  myself,  '  You  are  a  cure  after  all,  say  what  you 
like ' " 

"  And  hit  him  back  again !  Well,  on  my  honour,"  said 
Savigny,  "  I  have  a  mind  to  court-martial  you.  What  had 
you  been  drinking,  Louis  ?  " 

"  I  had  over-worked  a  trifle,"  said  Bronne,  "  I  am  not 
naturally  irritable,  I  believe.  But  he  is  an  aggravating  fel- 
low, on  my  word.  He  said  he  was  ruined,  among  other 
things:  professionally  ruined,  which  cannot  really  be 
true." 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  259 

"  Did  he  pay  his  board  ?  "  said  Savigny  sharply. 

"  He  has  sent  it  since." 

"  Confound  him  !    Send  it  back." 

"  I  do  not  know  his  address,"  said  Bronne. 

"  Pish !  go  and  ask.  They  can  tell  you  at  the  places  where 
he  plays." 

"  JVIy  messenger  tried,  sir,  but  nobody  has  heard  of  him, 
nor  wanted  to,  one  would  say.    I  thought  he  was  popular." 

"So  he  was."  Savigny  paused,  scowling:  he  was  per- 
ambulating the  room.  "  Antoine  will  never  forgive  me," 
he  said.  "  There's  just  a  chance  he  may  have  communi- 
cated. Why  hadn't  you  the  sense  to  ask  the  fellow  himself 
before  he  left?" 

"  He  left  in  a  hurry,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  in  leisurely  utter- 
ance.   "  By  a  back  window,  so  they  say." 

"  They  say !  "  growled  Savigny.  "  Pretty  doings,  by 
heaven  !     What  are  you  superintendent  for  ?  " 

Dr  Bronne  did  not  say  that  he  had  been  acting  superin- 
tendent, consulting  physician,  and  sub-editor  as  well,  dur- 
ing the  weeks  in  question,  which  covered  the  period  of 
Savigny's  foreign  travel,  for  he  knew  Savigny  knew  these 
facts  as  well  as  he  did.  Savigny  had  abused  his  looks  on 
arrival,  and  told  him  he  was  evidently  taking  life  too  hard, 
and  his  own  importance  too  seriously,  and  Bronne  had  had 
nothing  to  say.  He  was  devoting  attention  now  to  his 
pen,  which  still  displeased  him,  and  accepted  his  reproof 
with  gravity. 

"  I  will  apologise  to  Antoine,"  he  said.  "  I  am  really 
very  sorry.  He  was  an  interesting  personality,  Charretteur, 
though  eccentric  in  his  morals." 

"  He  was  not  unmoral,"  said  Savigny. 

"  Nor  immoral,"  said  Bronne.  "  He  was  perverse  and 
crooked.  He  made  one  of  the  younger  girls  smuggle  in 
spirits  for  him,  and  when  I  asked  if  he  had  bribed  her,  he 
said  no,  he  had  only  resorted  to  your  method." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Savigny  indignantly. 

"  Used  his  eyes."    Bronne  glanced  round.    "  He  said  he 


26o  SUCCESSION 

had  suspected  from  the  first  there  was  money  in  your  line 
of  business,  and  now  he  was  sure  of  it." 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  said  the  doctor,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  laughed,"  said  Dr  Bronne. 

"  Hey  ?    That  was  not  what  you  hit  him  for,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  that,  no." 

"  He  called  me  a  charlatan,  did  he?  "  said  Savigny,  jerk- 
ing about.     "  A  knave,  perhaps." 

"  A  lot  of  injurious  jargon,"  said  his  assistant.  "  It 
amounted  to  that.  After  all,"  he  added  slowly,  "  it's  not 
the  first  time:  though  the  charge  is  rather  old  history." 
With  another  attentive  inspection  of  his  pen,  he  shook  it 
and  resumed  his  writing.  Bronne  blew  the  little  flame  of 
Savigny's  slow-growing  renown  with  almost  feminine  devo- 
tion, and  laid  the  whole  of  his  own  careful  work  down  daily 
as  fuel  in  the  cause.  He  was  in  many  ways  the  consolation 
to  the  solitary,  much-tried  doctor  that  in  happier  circum- 
stances a  wife  might  have  been;  and  he  certainly  claimed 
far  less  for  himself  than  would  have  done  the  wife  of 
Savigny's  first  choosing,  had  fate  granted  her  to  his  arms. 
That  bride  would  not  at  least  have  encouraged  him  in  self- 
ishness, as  Bronne's  continual  attention  inclined  to  do. 

As  for  Savigny's  side,  he  afforded  his  slave  little  atten- 
tion, to  all  appearance,  and  no  consideration  at  all.  Bronne's 
own  warm  little  party  said  he  trampled ;  yet  to  be  trampled 
is  the  fate  of  those  who  lie  down.  In  private  Savigny  sel- 
dom mentioned  him,  he  who  riddled  all  the  world  with 
criticism.  Only  when  others  criticised  his  slave  could  he 
aflford  a  rare  retort.  M.  Lemaure,  mocking  mildly  at  the 
perfection  of  Bronne's  appearance,  had  called  him  "  the 
young  god." 

"  You  are  not  quite  on  it  all  the  same,"  snapped  Savigny, 
"  for  Louis  has  enthusiasm,  and  the  gods  you  mean  are 
cold."    Whereat  M.  Lemaure  smiled,  and  satirised  no  more. 

Savigny  now  went  to  work  again ;  but  his  mind  was  evi- 
dently disturbed.    He  jerked  himself  constantly,  not  to  men- 


THEBADSUBJECT  261 

tion  the  table,  maltreated  his  utensils,  and  snorted  at  faults 
in  the  proof. 

"  I  am  sick  of  this,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  Midnight,  Louis, 
sleeping-time.     I  shall  go  to  bed." 

"  I  shall  finish  this  page,"  said  Bronne. 

"  Bad  habit  in  youth,"  said  Savigny.  "  If  your  eyes  get 
any  deeper  in  your  head,  they'll  come  out  the  other  side." 
But  having  tapped  him  on  the  head  as  patron,  and  looked 
at  his  notes  over  his  shoulder  for  a  minute,  he  rattled  down 
the  keys  at  his  side,  and  went  through  to  the  private  house, 
leaving  his  assistant  to  finish  and  lock  up. 

The  younger  man  had  not  written  in  peace  and  solitude 
for  ten  minutes  when  the  telephone  bell  rang  sharply  twice. 

"  Oh,  curse  them,"  said  Bronne  gently.  "  That  will 
reach  his  room." 

Part  of  his  self-imposed  mission  was  to  guard  Savigny's 
resting-time,  such  time  as  he  got  in  these  days.  He  threw 
down  his  pen,  and  went  to  the  little  office. 

"  Hallo !  "  he  said,  in  the  clear,  soft  tone  that  carried  well. 
"  No,  he  is  in  bed.  Who  is  it?  What?  Aha!  Yes,  im- 
mediately." He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  then  again  un- 
hooked it.  "Antoine!  Is  the  woman  there?  Good,  go 
back  to  bed." 

"What's  that?"  said  Bronne's  chief,  coming  cat-like 
behind  him  just  as  he  was  putting  on  his  coat.  His  fine  ear 
had  caught  the  jangle  from  afar. 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  Bronne,  though  doubtfully,  when  he 
had  informed  him. 

"  Sit  there  and  do  your  notes,"  said  Savigny,  "  and  know 
your  place,  I  might  have  to  send  for  something,  but  I 
doubt  it — the  child  is  easy  scared.  Wait  for  me  an  hour, 
do  you  hear? — and  then  shut  up." 

He  went,  with  the  agility  of  youth.  Every  sign  of  natural 
exhaustion  had  disappeared  from  the  first  mention  of  his 
friend's  name.  Bronne,  who  knew  all  the  history,  and  was 
used  to  the  intrusions  of  Lemaure  on  the  impersonal  realms 
of  science,  smiled  slightly,  shrugged,  and  returned  to  his 


262  SUCCESSION 

occupations.  Nothing  happened  for  half-an-hour,  when 
there  was  a  ring,  at  the  door  this  time;  and  going  to  the 
small  entrance  in  the  side  street,  he  admitted  Antoine. 

"  You  ?  "  said  Dr  Bronne,  with  composure.  "  Is  anything 
wanted?  " 

"  No.  Savigny  says  it  is  all  right,  but  they  are  talking, 
and  don't  want  me  there.  He  is  not  coming  back.  I  am 
to  stay  here — t-till  the  morning.     Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bronne.  "  I  half  expected  it,  your  place  is 
so  small.    Come  in  to  the  fire,  won't  you?    You  are  cold." 

"  No,"  the  boy  said.  "  It  is  not  at  all  cold  outside."  But 
his  teeth  were  chattering  none  the  less,  and  his  utterance  was 
irregular,  and  sharp  in  tone.  Bronne  saw  the  signs  of  shock 
very  well.  He  put  him  into  Savigny's  own  deep  chair,  made 
up  a  generous  fire,  and  then  left  him  in  peace  to  recover, 
looking  through  his  now  finished  notes  with  his  most  im- 
perturbable air. 

"  It  is  funny  to  be  here  without  him,"  soliloquised  An- 
toine, suddenly  throwing  himself  back.  "  It  is  rather  amus- 
ing, I  think."    He  looked  doubtfully  at  his  companion. 

"  You  shall  sleep  in  his  bed,  if  you  like,"  said  Louis 
Bronne. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  shall  sleep  here,  in  this 
chair.  It  is  a  nice  long  one."  He  wriggled  himself  into 
comfort.  "  He  said  I  was  a  donkey  to  ring  him  up  for 
nothing — I  was  s-so  glad  to  be  one.  What  are  you 
writing?  " 

Bronne  passed  him  calmly  the  notes  of  Charretteur's 
case,  an  incredible  proceeding  under  any  roof  but  that. 
Antoine  did  not  read  them  at  once,  though  he  fingered  the 
sheets  absently  and  commented  on  the  writing.  He  had  had 
a  fright,  and  his  mind  could  not  settle  immediately.  How- 
ever, things  in  the  Avenue  were  now  in  powerful  hands, 
and  likely  to  be  well.  There  was  a  charm  also  in  the  con- 
sulting-room— without  its  despot's  presence — a  new  and 
delicate  attraction.  As  for  Dr  Bronne,  Antoine  had  always 
thought  him  "  beautiful,"  making  with  his  own  brother  a 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  263 

twin  solace  in  the  barren  waste  that  was  Parisian  society, 
when  taken  strictly  from  this  point  of  view.  At  really  bad 
moments  of  life,  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  look  at  either. 

"Had  you  been  to  sleep?"  said  Louis.  The  kettle  had 
boiled,  and  he  was  concocting  hot  drinks  in  an  accustomed 
manner,  for  a  night  call  had  its  ceremonies. 

"  No,  not  quite.  He  came  to  my  room  and  called  me. 
He  has  never  done  that,  even  when  the  pain  was  very  bad. 
I  did  not  know  his  voice  at  first,  and  then  I  went.  I 
wanted  to  fetch  Margot — she  sleeps  now  au  sixieme — but 
he  would  not  let  me  for  a  long  time.  One  hand  is  still 
very  strong."  He  caressed  his  own  wrist  unconsciously. 
*'  These  days,  he  is  different." 

The  last  quick  confession  would  not  have  been  offered 
to  Savigny.  Bronne  had  the  feminine  gift  of  winning  con- 
fidence, without  effort  or  force ;  for  which  reason  he  had 
been  abundantly  useful  in  the  early  or  confessional  stage 
through  which  so  many  sensitive  sufferers  had  passed  in 
this  very  room. 

"  Since  you  came  home,"  he  said,  "  has  he  not  seemed 
well?" 

"  He  seems  well,  but  he  is  different." 

"  He  grows  older,"  said  Bronne  simply.  "  You  do  too, 
fortunately;  so  you  can  realise  and  be  ready  for  the 
changes,  can  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  ready,  I  think,"  said  the  boy  frowning.  "  I 
have  to  read  to  him,  and  talk  a  good  deal  about  the  con- 
certs.   He  likes  that." 

"  And  be  with  him  pretty  constantly,  probably.  You 
have  little  time  to  yourself." 

Antoine  shrugged  simply.  "  Have  you  any  more  concerts 
here?  "  said  Bronne. 

"  To-morrow  night,  the  recital  of  Duchatel.  I  am  try- 
ing to  practise  for  it." 

**  Trying?  " 

"  Grandpapa  does  not  like  the  music  much."  Both  brows 
lifted,  and  he  gazed  at  Bronne.     "  The  next  day — no,  the 


264  SUCCESSION 

day  after — I  go  to  England.  Philippe  will  come  to  him 
then." 

"Does  Monsieur  Lemaure  not  want  you  to  go?"  said 
Bronne,  with  a  glance  at  his  restless  attitude. 

"  When  I  talk  about  the  programmes,  yes.  When  he  for- 
gets them,  he  is  vexed." 

"  With  you  ?  " 

"  Generally  with  my  uncle.  He  does  not  see  why  I  should 
not  be  here,  like  I  used  to  be  when  I  was  ten.  If  this  re- 
cital is  a  good  one,"  said  Antoine,  clearing  his  throat,  for 
he  was  hoarse,  "  and  I  give  him  things  to  read  about  it, 
and  Duchatel  comes  to  talk,  he  will  not  mind  me  going  to 
London,  I  think." 

"  You  rehearse  to-morrow,  I  suppose,"  said  Louis,  hand- 
ing him  his  share  of  the  cookery.  "  Here,  this  will  be  good 
for  your  cold." 

"  I  have  not  got  a  cold,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  doctor  gravely.  "  It  is  hot,  take 
care.     When  do  you  rehearse?" 

"  Most  of  the  day,"  said  Antoine,  grimacing.  "  It  is 
awful  to  play,  the  new  sonata.  Too  awful.  I  told  Duchatel 
I  shall  change  some  things.  He  will  be  angry  if  I  do."  He 
gazed  at  the  steaming  glass  absently.  "  This  smells  nice," 
he  said  suddenly.  "  I  am  so  hungry.  May  I  have  some 
bread?  " 

Bronne  supplied  him  with  some  substantial  crusts,  which 
he  fished  out  of  a  tin  box.  "  I  apologise,"  he  said,  "  for  our 
restricted  hospitality.  We  keep  nothing  appetising  over 
here."  He  glanced  at  a  shelf  of  blue  bottles,  and  the  boy 
laughed  gently.  To  sup  after  midnight,  in  Savigny's 
domain,  had  a  relish  he  did  not  disguise.  He  thought 
Bronne  also  had  a  sly  air  of  being  out  of  school ;  at  least 
his  dark  face  was  very  pleasant.  Antoine,  while  he  dipped 
his  crusts  in  the  glass,  and  gnawed  at  them  contentedly, 
divided  his  attention  between  him,  and  the  notes  on  his  knee. 

"  There !  "  he  ejaculated,  hitting  the  chair  suddenly,  and 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  265 

nearly  upsetting  the  glass.  "  Of  course  you  can  tell  me. 
Savigny  would  not." 

"  But  I  cannot  answer,  if  Savigny  will  not,"  Bronne  ob- 
jected. 

"  Bah,  you  can  when  you  smile,"  said  Antoine.  "  You 
know  what  it  is,  too." 

"  About  Charretteur,"  said  Bronne,  with  resignation. 

"  Yes,  about  him.    He  is  well  ?  " 

"  Practically.     I  hope  by  now,  entirely." 

"  You  hope  ?  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  He  has  left  us.    He  ran  away  in  early  September." 

"  Is  he  in  Paris  ?  "  said  Antoine,  after  a  pause  with  more 
gnawing,  most  severe  in  its  effect. 

"  I  cannot  say,  worse  luck.  He  left  no  address,  so  we 
have  lost  him.     I  am  really  very  sorry,  Antoine." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  boy  drily.  "  It  is  ennuyeux,  ex- 
tremely.   I  want  to  send  him  a  ticket,  do  you  see?" 

"  Savigny  hoped  you  might  know  his  whereabouts,"  said 
Bronne. 

Antoine  shrugged.  "  Perhaps,  to-morrow  night.  But 
that  will  be  too  late,  for  the  ticket." 

"  Aha !  "  said  Bronne.  "  You  expect  him  to  attend  the 
recital.    You  are  not  sure?" 

"  How  can  I  be  sure  ?  He  ought  to  come,  for  the  new 
sonata.  I  zvish  him  to  come.  But  perhaps  he  has  gone 
right  away,  to  work.  He  did  not  practise,  hein? — while 
he  was  here." 

"  No,"  said  Bronne.  "  He  assured  us  more  than  once  he 
hated  music,  and  especially  the  violin.  Perhaps  that  was 
put  on — what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Antoine  stared  at  him  fixedly,  over  the  crust  he  was  nib- 
bling. "  Oh  no,"  he  said,  after  the  interval.  "  He  was  like 
that  already — and  I  expect  Savigny  made  it  worse.  He 
can."  ]Memories  assailed  Antoine,  almost  invisibly ;  then  he 
shook  them  off  with  a  jerk.  "  But  Jacques  must  practise, 
do  you  see?  "  he  said.    "  For  him,  it  is  necessary  now." 

"  I  see  we  are  in  fault,"  said  Louis,  smiling.     "  Shall  I 


266  SUCCESSION 

apologise  again?  Do  you  think  we  ought  not  to  undertake 
musicians  ?  " 

Antoine  considered  the  question.  "  I  believe,"  he  said 
then,  "  that  you  were  kind  to  Jacques." 

"  Kindness,"  said  Louis,  thinking  of  Charretteur's  fists, 
"  is  not  exactly  our  aim.    Curing  is  our  aim." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  think  Savigny  could  always 
be  more  kind  to  people.  You  do  not  ?  Bon !  "  He  paused 
and  cleared  his  throat.  "  There  is  another  thing,"  he  ad- 
mitted, "  to  make  Jacques  hate  music  a  little — that  is  the 
violin.  His  violin  is  not  good — he  knows  that.  He  was 
saving  some  money  to  get  another,  and  a  lady  was  to 
help  him.    He  told  you  that?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bronne.  He  wanted  to  go  to  bed,  but  the 
boy  amused  him  sufficiently.  He  was  graphic  to  watch,  for 
a  tired  man. 

"  If  that  lady  has  not  forgotten "  Three  expres- 
sions at  least  crossed  Antoine's  face,  as  he  reflected  on 
ladies  and  their  ways.  "  Here  is  another  thing,"  he  said, 
carelessly  illustrating  fate.  "  There  is  the  Stradivarius,  in 
grandpapa's  room.  While  I  waited  with  him  lately,  I  was 
looking  at  it,  on  the  shelf.  It  is  high  up,  and  dusty  on  the 
top.  Margot  may  never  touch  it.  .  .  .  It  seems  stupid, 
doesn't  it  ?  " 

"You  will  play  the  Stradivarius,  some  day,"  suggested 
Bronne. 

"  No,  I  shall  not,"  said  Antoine,  not  rudely,  but  with  an 
air  of  business.    "  See,  shall  I  tell  you  about  that?  " 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Bronne. 

"  Yesterday  I  was  practising — some  things  I  learnt  this 
summer.  Tricks,  grandpapa  said;  but  he  was  curious  to 
see,  so  I  came  close  to  show  him.  Then  he  got  impatient 
with  only  looking,  and  took  the  violin.  I  liked  to  see  him 
hold  it  very  much.  He  says,  the  tone  has  improved  since  he 
bought  it,  that  is  when  maman  was  twelve  " — he  calculated 
— "  twenty-six  years  ago.  So  I  told  him  Moricz — my  mas- 
ter—said if  I  gave  it  up  for  any  other,  I  should  be  a  fool. 


THEBAD3UBJECT  267 

And  then  grandpapa  said,  for  him  too,  he  should  be  sorry 
to  see  another  in  my  hands.  Voila !  "  He  swept  his  hands 
out,  and  fell  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Come  to  bed,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  standing  over  him  with 
kindly  eyes.  "  In  any  case,  there  is  no  harm  in  having  two. 
Yours  might  have  an  accident,  who  knows  ? " 

"  Bah !  "  said  Antoine  instantly.  "  I  might  have  an  acci- 
dent, who  knows?  And  then  there  would  be  two  beautiful 
violins,  and  nobody  for  them.  And — listen — Jacques  might 
have  an  accident,  because  he  is  poor,  and  tired  of  stupid 
people.    Have  you  thouglit  of  that,  vous  autres  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  three  times,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  "  that  we 
were  in  fault  to  lose  sight  of  him.    That  is  enough." 

"  It  is  not  you,"  returned  Antoine,  looking  up,  his  eyes 
gleaming  wickedly  in  his  pale  face.  "  I- talk  about  Monsieur 
Raymond  to-night,  because  he  is  not  there.  I  expect 
Jacques  '  s'en  fichait ' — and  so  he  hates  Jacques." 

"  He  does  not  hate  him."  Bronne  stirred  seriously  in 
his  chief's  defence.  "  You  are  ungrateful,  really.  Both 
you  and  Charretteur  owe  him  a  great  deal,  more  than  you 
are  the  least  aware.  You  even,  for  all  you  know,  owe  him 
the  fact  that  you  are  strong  enough  to  rebel." 

"  Pfui !  "  said  Antoine.  He  looked  far  from  persuaded. 
"  I  shall  ask  Jacques  about  it,  wdien  I  see  him." 

"  I  think,"  Louis  said  slowly,  "  that  you  had  better  not." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  " — he  paused,  but  the  rule  of  the  house  ex- 
acted a  frank  answer  to  an  emancipated  patient — "  he  ex- 
ercises an  attraction,  which  might  do  you  harm.  I  felt  it 
myself,"  he  added. 

The  boy  studied  him  with  such  clear  admiration  and  re- 
spect that  Louis  felt  shy.  "  You  think  he  is  bad  ? "  he 
said  soon, 

"  Not  yet.  I  think  he  is  vain,  and  sensitive,  and  rather 
reckless,  tocv>  A  reverse  of  fortune  might  be  dangerous,  to 
such  a  desperado.  That  is  all.  Come  along,"  he  added 
gently. 


268  SUCCESSION 

Antoine,  thinking  still  of  Charretteur,  took  as  long  as 
possible  to  obey.  Dr  Bronne's  manner  of  good-humoured 
tolerance,  in  that  place  of  strict  command  and  cringing 
obedience,  was  really  fascinating — and  the  chair  was  com- 
fort itself.  "  I  have  been  to  bed  once,"  he  explained.  "  Let 
me  stay  here — it  is  a  nice  warm  place." 

But  he  was  persuaded  by  Louis's  gentle  methods;  and 
was  rolled  up  in  rugs  on  a  low  couch  in  his  room.  It  should 
be  mentioned,  for  such  as  think  that  Savigny's  assistant 
was  inclined  to  time-wasting  and  frivolity  after  midnight, 
that  he  took  a  note  on  that  conversation,  before  he  went  to 
sleep  himself.  He  considered  the  boy  had  a  marked  power 
of  prevision,  though  it  might  be  exercised  unconsciously. 
It  was  a  point  of  difference  with  Savigny,  who  declared 
that  Antoine's  species  lived  for  the  day  alone,  with  never 
a  thought  beyond  unless  compelled. 

Antoine  had  to  give  his  mind  to  Victor  the  next  day,  and 
had  little  time  to  think  of  Jacques.  Duchatel,  who  had  been 
invaluable  at  first  in  replacing  Lucien,  and  in  the  diplomatic 
aid  he  offered  to  the  boy,  had  shown  himself  over  the  lat- 
ter concerts,  where  his  own  works  held  the  foremost  place, 
at  his  most  high-strung  and  exacting,  claiming  most  of  An- 
toine's leisure,  and  more  than  all  his  attention,  up  to  the 
very  moment  of  performance. 

Nor  was  his  the  only  claim.  Since  his  German  tour  the 
boy's  engagements  were  multiplied,  both  abroad  and  at 
home.  He  had  already  had  to  put  off  his  English  visit  once, 
owing  to  the  amiable  Bertrand's  pressing  suggestion.  His 
uncle's  letters  bombarded  him  from  day  to  day,  full  of 
precept  as  to  what  he  should,  or  should  not,  accept,  cal- 
culated always  to  spare  his  father,  but  clashing  constantly 
with  M.  Lemaure's  private  advice.  The  old  man  himself, 
as  Antoine  had  hinted  to  Bronne,  though  full  of  pride,  was 
shaken  and  irritable  with  conscious  weakness,  and  inclined 
to  be  jealous  of  his  society. 

M.  Lemaure  could  be  diverted,  however,  in  his  retire- 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  269 

ment,  by  stories  of  his  grandson's  social  success,  that  came 
round  to  him  through  Duchatel.  As  a  fact,  Lucien's  strict 
surveillance  had  hampered  the  boy,  who  needed  to  be  at 
ease  to  show  his  best.  Personages  of  note,  colleagues  of 
his  uncle's  in  the  professorial  world,  friends  of  his  grand- 
father in  the  professional,  sought  Antoine  for  himself,  not 
only  for  the  family  whose  standard  he  bore,  and  made  no 
secret  of  their  opinion.  M.  Lemaure,  who  had  let  society 
drop  with  regret,  delighted  to  see  him  gathering  up  the 
threads  again.  Philip  scoffed,  but  was  ever  more  impressed 
by  the  free  display  of  a  gift  he  had  never  really  doubted. 
It  was  the  royal  gift,  passed  to  the  boy  by  direct  inherit- 
ance :  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  bigger  the  stage  offered 
him,  the  more  unwaveringly  he  took  the  central  place. 

The  flatterers  both  Antoine  and  his  grandfather  found 
more  tiresome.  They  w^ere  largely  women,  and  consisted 
principally  of  the  wealthy  semi-foreign  colony,  the  same 
exactly  who  had  made  much  of  Charretteur  in  the  spring. 
They  belonged  to  the  objectless  little  world,  needing  to 
spend,  always  on  the  watch  for  a  sensation,  and  eager  to 
be  first  in  the  field.  Antoine  could  not  ignore  the  group — 
scornfully  named  by  Lucien  the  "  etceteras  " — but  their  at- 
tentions bored  him,  and  in  petting  him  they  did  not  dis- 
guise an  ulterior  motive.  He  did  well  enough  pour  passer 
le  temps,  but  he  was  actually  too  young  to  interest  them 
deeply,  and  they  looked  beyond  him  to  Victor  Duchatel. 

Antoine  was  a  link  with  that  interesting  person,  whose 
star  was  at  last  in  the  ascendant,  and  who  made  himself, 
at  least  to  the  etcetera  band,  as  hard  as  any  star  could  be 
to  attain.  Victor's  long  neglect  had  left  him  "  savage," 
to  use  M.  Lemaure's  expressive  term.  He  looked  the  very 
contrary,  which  made  him  the  more  attractive.  He  was 
generally  known  by  sight,  went  everywhere  equally,  but  his 
manner  was  of  glass,  and  society  sirens  spread  their  nets 
in  vain.  His  friends — it  was  bitter — were  male  without 
exception:  included  old  men  and  the  boy  Antoine,  and 
excluded — it  was  the  one  consolation  the  etceteras  had — his 


2^o  SUCCESSION 

own  mother.  The  only  chance  for  the  ladies  was  to  come 
to  Antoine's  concerts,  and  even  then  they  usually  missed 
the  composer. 

As  for  Victor's  view  of  them,  he  kept  it  commonly  to  him- 
self ;  but  a  few  words  he  dropped  in  conversation  sufficed 
to  hint  at  it.  On  the  day  of  the  concert  he  was  in  a  "  mood," 
and  during  the  fleeting  visit  he  paid  M.  Lemaure  after  the 
rehearsal,  he  made  it  evident.  It  was  a  mood  new  to  An- 
toine,  but  to  his  grandfather  familiar  enough.  M.  Lemaure  i 
knew  most  of  the  moods  of  gifted  youth :  indeed,  Antoine 
was  the  only  one  of  his  children  who  had  not  made  him 
suffer  them  frequently ;  and  even  Antoine  spared  him 
chiefly  through  having  moods  that  resembled  his  own. 

Margot  was  used  to  M.  Duchatel  by  now,  and  let  him  in 
at  all  hours  without  remark.  He  was  haughty  to  her  over- 
tures, and  she  did  not  like  him  much,  but  she  respected 
Antoine's  judgment  as  to  his  worth,  and  she  saw  the  vis- 
itor amused  her  master.  Indeed,  Victor's  incursion  was  apt 
to  be  regarded  everywhere  as  entertainment  simply.  To- 
night he  came  formally  on  his  mother's  part  to  inquire,  and 
had  declared  to  Antoine  that  he  should  not  stay. 

"Alone,  Victor?"  said  the  master  of  the  house  when 
he  entered,  holding  out  the  hand  of  welcome.  Duchatel 
took  it  languidly.  His  state  of  nervous  tension  was  not 
apparent  till  he  spoke,  for  the  perfection  of  his  exterior 
was  deceptive. 

"  Monsieur  Edgell  is  there,"  he  said,  "  but  he  has  gone  to 
his  room.    Had  enough  of  me,  I  should  not  wonder." 

"You  are  such  a  hard  taskmaster?" 

"  I  worked  him  and  the  unfortunate  pianist  to  death,  and 
did  not  thank  them  at  the  end.  Oh,"  said  Victor,  spying 
at  the  papers  on  the  mantelshelf  through  his  eyeglass,  "  I 
have  been  insufferable — you  have  but  to  ask  him.  I  could 
not  even  enjoy  my  own  company  as  much  as  usual;  and 
I  have  deferred  deliberately  inflicting  it  on  my  mother — 
by  coming  here." 

M.  Lemaure  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  You  stay  to  dinner?  " 


THE   BAD    SUBJECT  271 

''  No,  no ;  I  go  to  her." 

"Exemplary  as  always.  Is  she  to  hear  your  work  to- 
night ?  " 

"  So  Antoine  says,"  said  Victor.  "  He  promises  her  I 
shall  not  be  siffle.     It  is  his  responsibility." 

"Does  she  not  wish  to  go?"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  She  has  borne  it  once,  and  nearly  died  of  fury." 

"  With  the  siffleurs  ?  " 

"With  me  for  provoking  them,"  said  Victor,  and  cast 
him  a  glance.  "  Perhaps  I  am  safe  to-night,"  he  added. 
"Your  grandson  is  protecting  me,  hein?  I  am  in  powerful 
hands." 

M.  Lemaure  looked  at  him  thoughtfully:  he  knew  the 
symptoms.  Vanity  and  shyness  were  fighting  their  battle 
out,  on  the  verge  of  the  production  of  this  newest  and  dear- 
est work.  He  had  hardly  borne  to  let  it  out  of  his  hands, 
and  having  done  so,  he  regretted  it;  and  to  console  him- 
self, had  doubtless  been  rending  the  performers.  "  I  had  in- 
tended," he  said  quietly,  "to  request  you  to  protect  An- 
toine." 

"  Ah — well,  I  will  go  in  at  the  end,  since  you  desire  it." 

"  Coward !  "  said  the  old  man,  still  quietly.  "  What  of 
all  those  who  go  for  you  alone  ?  " 

"  There  are  none  that  I  value,"  said  Victor.  "  Women ! 
What  is  it,  sir,  that  makes  all  women  think  I  welcome  them, 
whatever  I  may  say  or  do?    They  are  quite  wrong." 

Critical  as  he  was,  the  auditor  had  to  laugh.  The  manner, 
beautifully  balanced  between  innocence  and  fatuity,  was 
irresistible.  "  Your  mode  of  speech,"  he  suggested.  "  You 
are  too  polished,  and  too  ingenious.  Wits  and  courtiers 
are  never  believed." 

"  I  am  plain-spoken  to  a  fault,"  cried  Duchatel.  "  Ask 
Antoine,  whom  I  alarmed  to-day.  He  could  not  be  so 
uncivil  if  he  tried.  The  fair  Bertrand  brought  a  little 
crowd  to  rehearsal,  according  to  her  custom — uninvited. 
They  talked,  of  course,  and  drove  the  child  frantic.  He 
could  not  hear  himself  play   for  the  hiss  of  admiration. 


Y 


272  SUCCESSION 

What  it  is  to  be  fashionable,  here !  .  .  .  I  said  to  their 
faces  that  we  did  not  require  them ;  that  they  were  evidently 
not  concerned,  since  we  had  work  to  do ;  that  they  could 
wait,  in  short,  and  pay  for  their  seats.  And  they  laughed, 
I  assure  you,  as  at  a  jeu  d'esprit.  It  is  like  a  bad  dream  to 
be  treated  so." 

"The  prophet  teased  by  butterflies."  M.  Lemaure 
laughed  at  him,  though  still  with  an  attentive  eye.  "  You 
dress  too  well,  mon  petit,"  he  said.  "  That  in  itself  is  flat- 
tery." 

"  And  if  I  assured  you  I  dress  to  avoid  attention  ?  "  cried 
Duchatel. 

"  I  should  believe  you,"  said  his  host,  laying  a  hand  on 
his  arm,  as  he  came  near.  "  Sit  down,  my  dear  boy.  You 
are  tired.  It  strikes  me  often  that  you  divert  others  more 
than  yourself." 

"  I  never  divert  myself,"  said  Victor.  He  resisted  the 
hand.  "  I  go  now  to  divert  mamma,  who  is  waiting  for 
me." 

"Stay  a  little  for  Antoine,  will  you  not?" 

"  Spare  him,"  said  Duchatel.  "  Perhaps  when  it  is  over 
' — ^you  see,  do  you  not,  I  am  diseased  ?  " 

"  I  see  you  are  excited,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Tell  me, 
Victor:  did  the  child  see  Bertrand  about  young  Charret- 
teur?    He  intended  to." 

"  He  talked  of  little  else,"  drawled  Duchatel.  "  He  seems 
rather  excitable  on  that  subject,  though  it  is  waste  of  time 
to  pursue.  What  the  fellow  has  done  with  himself,  heaven 
knows.    But  he  has  slain  his  chances." 

"You  are  sure  of  that?" 

"  They  rested  always  on  the  female  vote." 

"  Ah — which  you  have  now? — or  is  it  Bebe?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  which  of  us  to-morrow,"  said  Duchatel. 
He  laughed  slightly,  as  though  at  himself,  ran  his  eyeglass 
into  place,  and  prepared  to  go ;  but  he  stopped  again  at  M. 
Lemaure's  side.  "  The  woman  who  was  Jacques'  patroness- 
in-chief,"  he  said  crisply,  "  was  hanging  over  Antoine  to- 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  273 

night.  Vincent,  the  same  who  wrote  Lucien  those  letters. 
The  child  got  her  on  the  subject  of  the  truant — against  her 
will.    He  is  tactless,  Ic  petit — he  might  have  seen." 

"  Seen  what  ?  " 

"  She  is  the  sort  of  woman  who  makes  proteges,"  said 
Duchatel,  "  and  gives  presents.  She  has  a  priceless  violin, 
acquired  the  unjust  heaven  knows  how,  which  I  hear  in 
private  she  means  to  bestow  upon  him." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "    The  old  man  roused. 

"  Your  grandson.  Unless  indeed  he  has  already  refused 
it" 

"  Why  should  she  do  so  ?  "  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  We  are 
not  destitute." 

Unconsciously  he  glanced  at  the  high  shelf,  where  his 
own  treasure  was  lying.  Duchatel  glanced  also,  and 
shrugged. 

"  You  imagine,"  said  he,  "  it  is  the  destitute  who  receive? 
I  was  present  when  the  wind  changed.  It  was  the  same 
day  the  King's  honour  to  your  grandson  figured  in  the  pa- 
pers. To  them  that  have  favour  shall  be  given — by  flat- 
terers.    You  must  know  that." 

"  I  am  disturbed,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  was  amused,"  said  Victor  languidly.  "  I  have  seen  the 
violin.    Charretteur  was  to  have  had  it  in  May." 

"  I  am  the  more  disturbed.  H  Bebe  knows  that  he  will 
certainly  be  rude  to  her.  He  is  easily  excited  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  you  say." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  instrument,"  said  Victor.  "  I  heard 
Jacques  try  it  once." 

"Psst!  No,  it  is  unjust,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  Only  he 
became  pensive  and  remained  so  after  Victor  left  him,  for 
he  loved  beautiful  instruments  with  a  collector's  love ;  and 
he  was  inclined  to  hoard  his  own. 

With  the  evanescent  memory  of  age  for  recent  things,  he 
had  almost  forgotten  Charretteur,  but  Antoine  and  Savigny 
had  combined  to  remind  him.  Savigny's  opinions  on  the 
truant  had  been  unvarnished:   one  might  almost  have  sus- 


274  ^  SUCCESSION 

pected  a  prejudice,  if  such  a  high  mind  could  be  allowed 
one;  Antoine  struck  him  as  genuinely  anxious;  and  now 
Duchatel  had  stirred  his  mind  on  the  subject  again,  both  by 
his  careless  words,  and  the  unconsciously  complete  contrast 
he  himself  presented.  M.  Lemaure  recalled  Jacques'  rough 
manner  and  powerful  presence,  his  harsh  and  hasty  utter- 
ance, and  faced  him  in  fancy  with  Victor  as  he  had  lately 
stood  before  him.  Both  youths  were  familiar  incarnations 
for  art  to  choose,  and  they  were  strong  types  each  of  his 
kind.  He  had  little  doubt  that  below  the  surface  they  were 
equally  untamed,  though  in  which  the  flame  burnt  stronger 
he  could  not  judge.  It  was  probable  that  his  grandson's 
instinct  in  the  matter  could  help  him  there;  but  when  the 
boy  came  in,  and  stood  silent  before  the  fire,  he  found  he 
did  not  want  to  tease  him  much.  Antoine  had  not  had  an 
easy  day,  and  still  had  a  hard  task  before  him.  He  seemed 
absent  and  less  inclined  to  talk  than  usual,  whether  owing 
to  Victor  or  his  female  chorus. 

"  Duchatel  is  gone? "  he  queried  shortly.  His  voice  was 
hardly  his  own,  and  he  looked  a  little  feverish.  His  cold, 
rushing  to  a  climax,  like  all  things  undertaken  by  Antoine, 
was  a  natural  impediment  to  free  speech,  and  vexed  him  in 
addition.  Antoine  was  not  one  to  enjoy  the  mute's  role,  or 
to  take  the  deprivation  of  the  means  of  expression  lightly. 

Margot,  who  was  preparing  their  simple  meal,  glanced 
round  at  him  sharply  when  he  spoke.  Margot  disapproved 
of  Antoine's  professional  engagements  from  several  points 
of  view,  but  more  especially  that  they  left  Monsieur  alone. 
To-night  she  considered  the  boy  should  be  in  bed,  and  only 
refrained  from  saying  so  out  of  deference  to  the  prejudices 
of  the  household. 

"  He  had  to  go,"  M.  Lemaure  answered,  and  signed  his 
grandson  to  approach. 

Antoine  came  to  his  side  by  old  habit  to  be  set  right,  for 
no  one  in  the  house  ever  believed  he  could  dress  himself. 
M.  Lemaure,  however,  found  little  to  correct,  and  only  ex- 
amined very  closely. 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  275 

"  Thou  bearest  no  honours,  our  pupil,"  he  observed, 
passing  a  hand  up  to  grasp  a  button-hole  as  he  stood  facing 
him. 

"  I  have  none."  The  boy's  brilliant  eyes  were  on  his 
face.  He  was  seldom  more  charming  to  M.  Lemaure  than 
in  these  moods  of  absent  dignity. 

"  But  surely !    Is  this  not  a  worldly  occasion  ?  " 

"  I  told  Monsieur  he  should  wear  his  little  eagle,"  cried 
Margot,  ceasing  operations  to  attend.  "  It  would  amuse 
ces  dames,  hein  ? — who  have  never  seen  it." 

The  boy  made  a  movement  of  impatience  and  set  his  lips. 
Ces  dames  had  spoilt  his  rehearsal,  and  he  had  not  loved 
them,  for  he  was  nervous  about  the  new  composition. 

"  On  est  maussade  ce  soir,"  said  Margot.  She  had  been 
trying  in  vain  to  draw  details  from  him  of  the  haut  monde, 
whose  prodigal  attentions  delighted  her.  Ladies  in  silk 
represented  fame  to  Margot  well  enough,  and  their  con- 
sideration was  surely  proved  by  the  flowers  they  sent,  and 
the  motor  cars  that  flitted  so  constantly  to  the  door  to  fetch 
him  or  bring  him  home. 

"Thy  Jacques  has  many,  has  he  not?"  M.  Lemaure 
pursued,  disregarding  her. 

"  Many  medals  ?    Yes — but  I  think  he  has  sold  them." 

"Ah,  le  miserable!    Is  he  to  be  there  to-night?  " 

The  boy  nodded.  "  He  has  written  to  me,"  he  said,  put- 
ting a  hand  to  his  pocket. 

"Ah,  then  you  have  his  address.  Raymond  was  in- 
quiring." 

"  No ;  he  does  not  say  it."  Antoine  tried  to  detach  the 
grasp  on  him,  but  did  not  succeed  in  disturbing  it. 

"  Raymond  wishes  to  see  him,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Re- 
member to  tell  him  so.    He  has  to  restore  some  money." 

"  He  will  not  see  him,  or  take  it."    His  voice  choked. 

"  My  dear,  you  cannot  be  sure.  He  may  be  in  need  of 
money."    No  response.    "  Deliver  the  message,  at  least." 

Still  the  boy  said  nothing;  but  he  looked  harassed  and 
miserable  rather.     His  grandfather,  having  waited  a  little, 


276  SUCCESSION 

released  him.  Jacques'  communication,  whatever  it  was, 
had  evidently  not  been  reassuring.  The  old  man  wondered 
if  Savigny  was  right,  and  if  he  ought  to  sever  the  connec- 
tion. For  the  moment  at  least  he  pressed  no  further  on  the 
point.    Later  he  tried  again. 

"  Does  Charretteur  know  this  work  you  play?  "  he  queried 
over  the  meal. 

"  He  has  seen  it,"  said  Antoine.  "  He  says  it  is  for  him, 
not  me." 

"  Do  you  agree  with  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine,  having  paused.  "  Perhaps  it  is. 
But  Duchatel  has  given  it  to  me,  do  you  see  ?  Anyhow,"  he 
finished,  thinking  aloud,  ''  to-night  I  must  play  it." 

"  You  do  not  love  it,  in  your  heart,"  said  M.  Lemaure, 
also  thinking  aloud,  since  they  were  tctc-a-tcte.  He  longed 
to  twist  the  boy  to  his  opinion,  and  could  hardly  believe  he 
did  not  hold  it  secretly. 

"  I  do,"  said  Antoine,  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  a  quite  beauti- 
ful thing."  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  for  some  time,  and 
when  he  did  glance  across,  refused  to  smile. 

"  Thou  art  maussade,  as  Margot  says,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  M.  Bronne  liked  him,"  volunteered  Antoine  presently. 

"  Whom  ?  "  said  his  grandfather,  who  kept  on  forgetting 
Charretteur. 

"  Jacques.  He  said  he  was  attractive.  Do  you  think 
so?" 

"The  most  attractive  young  man  I  know:  if  you  mean 
M.  Bronne." 

"  Bah !  you  are  annoying,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  can't  talk 
much  to-night,  and  you  will  not  listen  when  I  do." 

"  I  think  thou  hadst  best  not  talk  at  all,"  said  M.  Le- 
maure. 

"  No,  I  will  not."  He  paused  and  looked  depressed.  "  Of 
course,"  he  proceeded,  "  when  you  are  beautiful  you  are 
attractive.  Jacques  is  not.  He  says  he  is  ugly — poor  and 
ugly — and  so  it  is  wrong  for  him  now.  Only  it  is  not  wrong 
because  of  that,"  said  Antoine,  playing  with  the  food  on 


THE    BAD    SUBJECT  277 

his  plate,  "  because  he  was  always  an  ugly  man.  I  expect — 
it  is  Savigny's  fault." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  j\I.  Lemaure,  not  severely,  but  just  as 
one  said  it  to  Antoine. 

"  Or  Madame  Bertrand,"  the  boy  added.  "  Or  that  other 
one.  Perhaps  her."  He  pushed  his  plate  aside,  as  though 
dismissing  it.  He  never  alluded  to  the  admiring  Madame 
Vincent  by  name,  his  grandfather  noticed;  and  he  classed 
her  invariably  with  Bertrand's  wife,  whom  he  detested.  It 
was  by  such  little  indications  that  Antoine's  personal  opin- 
ions became  evident.  The  old  man,  somewhat  entertained, 
since  he  felt  himself  behind  the  scenes,  pushed  him  a  little 
as  to  his  social  triumphs.  But  he  desisted  soon,  for  the  boy 
seemed  sensitive  to  the  mockery.  After  a  silence  Antoine 
rose,  and  came  round  the  table." 

*'  They  do  not  matter,  those  people,"  he  ventured  to  sug- 
gest, in  confidence. 

"  Well,  I  would  not  exaggerate  their  importance,"  said 
]\r.  Lemaure.  "  Technically,  they  do  not  matter — only  a 
little  to  our  purse."  As  the  boy  sat  frowning  on  his  chair, 
he  added :  "  My  dear,  you  have  eaten  nothing." 

"  It  hurts  to  eat.  Tell  me  what  you  really  think  about 
Charretteur." 

"  He  should  go  abroad."  The  advice  when  it  came  was 
almost  absently  given,  but  the  boy  caught  it  up  at  once. 

"  He  was  to  have  gone  abroad  this  winter,  with  the  trio 
of  Ribiera.    He  told  me  that  in  May." 

"  Hey?  "  M.  Lemaure  roused,  for  the  name  he  used  was 
a  considerable  one.  "  That  should  secure  his  fortune. 
Ribiera  swims  in  gold." 

"  Victor  said  that,"  agreed  Antoine.  "  But  I  think  they 
have  quarrelled.    Jacques  quarrels  with  everyone." 

"  Well,"  said  his  grandfather  rather  drily.  "  We  here 
cannot  make  up  artists'  quarrels.  That  is  a  thing,  in  my 
career,  I  never  tried  to  do.  It  means  their  temperaments 
do  not  agree — et  voila." 


278  SUCCESSION 

"Jacques  should  not  play  with  anybody,"  the  boy  as- 
sented.   "  He  makes  faces  all  the  time  he  does." 

"Which  proves  him  a  soloist  born,  eh?"  M.  Lemaure 
smiled  and  straightened  the  hair  which  he  had  already  dis- 
ordered in  an  unseemly  manner.  "  Well,  well,  there  must 
be  some." 

"  That  was  the  telephone,"  said  Antoine,  after  a  pause, 
his  eyes  tight  shut.  "  I  expect  she  is  down  there  for  me. 
I  go." 

"  Do  not  go,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  Stay  with  me  here 
to-night." 

The  boy  opened  his  dark  eyes,  and  they  looked  straight 
at  one  another  a  moment.  "  You  do  not  wish  that,"  he 
said. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  not,"  said  the  old  artist,  with  a  sigh.  "  Go 
then  to  the  work,  my  beloved.  We  must  not  make  this 
unknown  lady  wait." 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  flowers,"  said  Antoine  lightly. 
"  There  are  always  plenty  there." 


CHAPTER   X 

VICTOR   IS  DIFFICULT 

Antoine  looked  his  public  over  thoughtfully,  in  the  little 
1  interval  before  the  recital  began,  when,  entering  into  pos- 
session of  the  only  open  space  in  the  room,  he  and  the 
pianist  took  their  places  for  the  first  sonata.  The  new  hall 
in  which  he  played  was  rather  far  west,  and  the  "  etceteras," 
beautifully  arrayed,  were  in  their  glory.  Every  seat  was 
full,  and  the  room  had  the  appearance  from  the  platform 
of  being  heaped  against  the  walls,  so  urgent  was  the  throng 
that  lined  it,  blocking  even  the  standing-room  to  the  very 
doors.  Had  Antoine  not  been  distracted  by  his  responsibil- 
ity in  regard  to  Victor,  it  would  have  been  purely  amusing 
to  behold.  He  had  good  eyes,  and,  running  them  along  the 
row  of  boxes,  he  found  plenty  of  his  acquaintance.  Twice 
he  smiled  deliberately,  catching  a  friendly  eye.  He  could 
not  discover  Jacques,  nor  Philip;  but  Dr  Bronne,  who 
seemed  to  have  stolen  leave  to  amuse  himself,  had  a  gleam 
in  passing.  Near  Antoine,  to  the  right,  Victor's  mother,  a 
solitary  and  awful  figure,  wielded  her  tortoise-shell  eye- 
glass, and  guarded  an  empty  seat  beside  her.  Equally  evi- 
dent to  the  left,  M.  Fauchard  with  his  wife  and  a  critic  oc- 
cupied the  corner  of  the  Bertrands'  box.  But  though  An- 
toine's  eyes  fixed  them  an  instant,  and  though  he  bowed 
slightly  to  Madame  Duchatel,  his  remaining  smile  was  saved 
for  a  shabby  art  student  with  a  beard,  who  had  pushed  by 
means  of  his  sharp  elbows  to  the  front  of  the  standing- 
places  at  two  francs. 

"  Sst !   he's  all  right,"  said  this  object  to  a  tall  friend  in 
279 


28o  SUCCESSION 

the  crowd  behind.  "  Lot  of  rot  those  fellows  talk.  Let's 
be  off,  Paul.     Where  is  the  fat  Andre  ?  " 

The  bystanders  gaped,  though  with  a  keen  eye  to  the 
place  he  might  vacate. 

Andre,  however,  invisible,  a  voice  crying  in  the  wilder- 
ness, replied  that  he  would  go  after  the  Duchatel,  and  only 
then  if  he  was  dug  out  alive. 

"  You  overeat,"  said  Ostrowski  gravely.  "  Jespersen, 
where's  Phil?  " 

"  Late,"  said  Jespersen,  with  a  wink.  "  I  heard  him  at 
the  door,  frantically  proving  his  identity.  He  won't  get 
through." 

"  Serve  him  right,"  moaned  the  invisible.  "  Alas,  if  I 
were  he !  " 

"  He  is  thinner,  our  relative,"  mused  the  artist,  gazing 
towards  the  stage.  "  That  transverse  shadow — or  is  it  the 
light?    He  is  older,  Paul." 

"  The  sausage-sellers  have  been  making  him  cry,"  said 
the  invisible  voice,  as   Ostrowski   did  not   speak.     "  The 

beer-swillers  have Friends,   I   am   dying.     Ouch,   I 

agonise.    Pray  for  me !  " 

But  nobody  prayed  for  Andre,  and  all  commentary  was 
silenced,  since  Antoine  lifted  his  bow.  He  played  Mozart 
first,  with  the  fine  attention  he  invariably  gave  to  his  grand- 
father's favourite  composer,  and  the  etceteras  tolerated  the 
thing  kindly,  though  it  lasted  far  too  long.  A  few  old- 
fashioned  people  enjoyed  themselves,  including  M.  Bronne, 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  the  lines  in  his  brow  relaxing; 
and  Madame  Duchatel,  who  had  the  leisure  to  be  surprised, 
though  her  son's  behaviour  disturbed  her  so  bitterly,  that 
she  would  barely  let  herself  be  soothed,  even  in  the  infinite 
leisure  of  a  classical  slow  movement. 

She  had  taken  Victor's  seat,  and  kept  it  heedfully  with 
her  shawl.  His  manner  at  dinner  had  baffled  her  com- 
pletely, though  she  had  held  her  own  and  crushed  him  to 
the  best  of  her  ability.  Victor  had  walked  with  her  to  the 
door — the  Duchatels  lived  in  the  next  street — and  had  then 


VICTOR   IS   DIFFICULT  281 

vanished,  begging  his  mother  at  parting  to  amuse  herself 
well.  As  though — Madame  would  fain  have  told  him — she 
abandoned  her  parrot  and  her  patience  cards  for  a  whole 
evening,  for  her  amusement's  sake  1  She  was  there,  as  a 
fact,  in  direct  response  to  Antoine's  invitation,  which  she 
had  condemned  aloud  as  impertinent.  She  had  no  need, 
she  informed  Victor  with  a  shaking  head,  to  be  invited  by 
young  M.  Edgell  to  hear  his  music,  she  would  naturally  go 
where  duty  required  her  without  that.  Yet,  as  Victor  knew 
very  well,  on  learning  the  message,  she  had  given  up  a  visit 
for  which  the  carriage  was  already  ordered,  and  consented 
to  sit  the  evening  out  in  a  concert  hall,  a  thing  she  had  not 
done  for  ten  years. 

Now  she  could  not  believe  in  his  deliberate  desertion,  and 
looked  for  him  from  moment  to  moment  as  the  programme 
advanced.  Did  he  really  expect  her  to  listen  to  his  work 
without  the  aid  of  his  commentary?  He  should  have  been 
at  her  side,  of  course,  to  spell  out  his  meaning  to  her,  and 
receive  blunt  criticism ;  for  the  little  old  lady  was  no  mean 
connoisseur,  and  had  been,  long  since,  a  fine  pianiste,  and 
the  friend  of  many  artists  of  the  old  school.  It  was  in  a 
kind  of  loyalty  to  them  and  her  youth,  that  she  punished  her 
son's  persistent  heresies  now,  driving  him  to  ironic  retort, 
or  to  shrinking  silence,  which  vexed  her  more  than  any 
sharp  reply.  He  was  her  youngest,  and  she  loved  him  pas- 
sionately ;  but  according  to  her  long-passed  school,  the  love 
showed  itself  in  severity,  and  a  desperate  attempt  to  restrain 
and  direct  the  man  of  thirty  as  she  had  done  the  child. 

She  held  her  conspicuous  post  with  dignity,  and  none 
could  have  guessed  her  inner  disturbance  and  uncertainty. 
Pursing  up  her  lips,  she  stared  about  her  at  the  groups  of 
tnondaines,  on  many  of  whom  she  could  have  expressed  a 
vigorous  opinion,  had  any  been  beside  her  to  listen  to  it. 
Alas,  it  was  the  contrary.  She  had  herself  to  bear  the  truth 
in  silence,  instead  of  applying  it  to  others,  as  was  her  habit. 
She  had  borne,  with  burning  eyes  and  twitching  lips,  some 
very  frank  comment  and  comparison  from  a  well-instructed 


282  SUCCESSION 

couple  beside  her,  who  used  both  her  son's  name  and  An- 
toine's  freely,  before  the  recital  began.  Unwillingly  she 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  people  came  deliberately  to  scoff, 
when  his  works  were  performed.  Her  Victor,  delicate, 
sensitive,  exquisite,  trained  by  her  in  the  finest  tenets  of 
classical  art,  put  himself  into  hands  of  snobs  such  as  these, 
to  patronise  at  will.  Others  too,  she  observed,  listened  to 
the  wise  couple's  opinions  with  interest  and  respect,  and 
common  tattle  was  silenced  about  her.  Remarks  about 
Antoine  ceased  suddenly  when  his  head  bent  in  her  direc- 
tion, and  though  she  barely  moved  in  response,  even  her 
neighbours  lent  her  some  curious  glances.  Madame  Du- 
chatel,  glaring  rock-like  at  her  programme,  felt  inclined  to 
tell  them  to  say  what  they  liked.  She  had  a  great  regard 
for  Antoine's  grandfather,  whom  she  had  known  intimately 
of  old;  and  in  right  of  the  family  he  represented,  she  had 
a  certain  curiosity  about  him ;  but  she  greatly  resented  the 
position  he,  a  mere  boy,  held  of  patron  to  her  son ;  and  she 
resented  it  now  the  more  that  the  common  herd  clearly 
held  the  patronage  as  a  point  in  Victor's  favour. 

She  let  her  resentment  slide  for  a  time  during  the  classical 
sonata  and  the  solos ;  but  it  returned  in  full  force  when, 
discarding  written  music,  and  the  paraphernalia  of  desk  or 
chair,  he  advanced  to  the  front  for  the  last  and  more  au- 
dacious section  of  the  programme.  He  was  easier  thus  to 
see,  at  least  for  the  old  woman's  fading  sight,  and,  taking 
a  general  view  of  him  through  her  glass,  she  thought  he 
looked  uncommonly  obstinate,  and  rather  ill.  The  critical 
couple  had  begun  to  discuss  him  again,  in  a  tone  they  in- 
tended to  be  cautious.  They  admitted  he  was  an  "  effective  " 
player — that  very  safe  word — called  him  a  thin  little  creat- 
ure ;  had  heard  he  was  consumptive,  like  so  many  of  those 
people ;  and  glanced  invitation  at  Madame  Duchatel.  But 
the  old  lady  remained  impervious  and  unsociable.  She  did 
not  intend  to  converse  with  such  common  tattlers  about  art, 
and  certainly  not  about  Charles'  family.  In  the  period  suc- 
ceeding M.  Lemaure's  wife's  death,  she  had  always  lent 


VICTOR   IS    DIFFICULT  283 

him  her  opinion  on  his  children's  education,  and  on  their 
aihnents,  when  it  was  worth  the  trouble.  About  this  boy's 
recent  breakdown  she  had  been  sharply  curious  at  the  time, 
and  had  even  written  to  Lucien  on  the  subject.  She  judged 
the  greater  part  of  it  a  matter  of  pose  and  self-deception, 
and  had  schemed  for  some  weeks  to  have  Antoine  to  her 
house  and  prove  the  theory. 

She  pursued  a  preliminary  investigation  at  leisure,  purs- 
ing her  lips  at  the  couple's  ignorant  surmises.  She  had  not 
admitted  the  likeness  to  Charles  before;  but  now,  as  he 
narrowed  his  eyes  and  wrinkled  his  brow  at  the  dazzle  of 
the  lights  he  faced,  it  struck  her  forcibly.  Then,  as  the 
enthtisiasm  mounted  round  him,  the  strained  look  melted  in 
a  smile,  generous  and  mirthful  as  Charles'  was,  and  curi- 
ously appealing.  Madame  thought  of  Henriette,  the  mis- 
chievous girl  student,  who  made  open  mockery  of  the  old 
and  experienced  who  endeavoured  to  guide  her  for  her 
good,  and  who  could,  by  such  a  smile,  or  a  mere  movement 
of  her  charming  eyebrows,  bring  any  man  in  her  vicinity 
to  her  feet.  Madame  had  intensely  disapproved  of  Hen- 
riette and  her  education;  and  was  not  the  better  pleased 
with  her  in  memory,  that  her  predictions  anent  her  failed 
of  realisation.  She  had  made  no  scandal,  nor  had  she  mar- 
ried imprudently.  She  had  been  a  happy  wife,  had  died  the 
exemplary  death  for  such,  and  her  children — there  seemed 
to  be  no  doubt  of  it — might  be  classed  as  successful.  This, 
her  youngest  boy,  was  more  successful  than  Madame  Du- 
chatel's.  This  roomful  of  mixed  people  admired  him — 
waited  with  tame  smiles,  from  the  critics  downward,  for 
any  reading  he  might  give  them — a  gamin  of  fifteen! 
Madame's  bony  finger-tips  tapped  her  bony  black  fan,  as 
the  applause  spread  and  persisted.  This  was  all  for  him — 
she  was  too  sure  of  it — and  none  for  Victor,  not  a  crumb. 
And  he,  her  son,  was  aware  of  it  and  hid  himself.  Out  of 
mere  pique  and  loneliness,  the  old  mother  could  have  cried. 
Then  Henriette's  boy  shook  the  applause  off  him,  lifted 


284  SUCCESSION 

his  chin,  gathered  the  violin  under  it,  and  with  a  half-turn 
to  the  "  other  young  man  "  at  the  piano,  began  to  play. 

Madame  Duchatel  began  to  listen  half-heartedly,  uncom- 
fortably, longing  to  be  far  from  this  staring  public  room 
and  puzzling  music,  safe  by  her  own  hearth  with  Victor 
and  her  bird.  Had  she  been  less  blind  and  less  indifferent, 
she  might  have  been  well  amused  by  watching  the  room. 
The  majority  plainly,  like  Madame  herself,  thought  that 
the  young  man  at  the  piano  was  making  mistakes.  Such 
insolent  assaults  on  harmony  could  not  be  intended,  even  by 
a  free-lance  like  Duchatel.  Meanwhile  the  critic  in  Ber- 
trand's  box  smiled  superior,  and  folded  his  arms,  a  few 
young  disciples  of  the  new  school  shut  their  eyes  with  rapt 
faces,  and  M.  Jacques  Charretteur,  from  the  corner  where 
he  had  been  lurking,  showed  for  the  first  time  a  spark  of 
interest,  and  began  to  watch  the  performer  keenly,  the 
fingers  of  his  left  hand  snapping  unconsciously,  as  it  dangled 
over  the  side  of  his  box. 

Nearer  at  hand,  the  old  lady  could  be  less  indiflferent  to 
the  critical  sounds  and  satirical  whispers  that  passed,  or  to 
the  fact  that  the  clever  couple  of  amateurs  were  laughing 
as  at  a  farce.  Waking  a  little  from  her  torpor,  she  turned 
a  nervous  eye  on  Antoine.  As  though  answering  sensitively 
to  the  feeling  in  the  room  he  could  give  himself  no  moment's 
leisure  to  observe,  he  roused  to  battle  almost  visibly.  He 
had  all  he  could  do,  but  he  put  more  of  his  inner  heat  into 
it  moment  by  moment,  dragging  the  pianist  after  him  by 
the  way,  and  finishing  the  last  two  pages  in  a  kind  of  dis- 
dainful fury.  It  was  just  about  the  last  page  that  half  the 
audience  suddenly  discovered  that  what  they  were  attending 
to  had  a  reason  and  a  beauty  of  its  own ;  and  it  was  not  till 
the  final  passages  that  Charretteur  rose  to  his  feet  as  though 
he  could  be  seated  in  excitement  no  longer,  and  it  occurred 
simultaneously  to  the  remainder  of  the  room  that  the  child 
thus  ordering  and  interpreting  incredible  chaos  for  them 
was  a  musician  of  parts— one  of  the  brains  given  to  art 


VICTOR    IS    DIFFICULT  285 

once  in  a  generation,  and  very  rarely  indeed  coupled  with  a 
performer's  hands. 

Madame  Duchatel,  with  her  dimmed  senses,  could  only 
perceive  the  change  from  her  corner  in  a  small  way.  She 
noticed  the  slight  hisses  and  hints  about  her  sink  to  silence, 
the  clever  couple  sit  wiih  their  mouths  half  open  and  their 
eyes  upon  the  player,  and  then  the  equally  slight  signs  of 
the  turn  of  tide,  heralded  by  Jacques'  conspicuous  move- 
ment below.  The  applause  on  the  last  bar,  even  before  the 
boy  had  drawn  out  his  note,  was  like  a  crack  of  thunder, 
and  as  startling.  Madame  Duchatel  started  at  it,  and 
shrank,  as  though  fearing  to  be  discovered,  recognised,  and 
rent  where  she  sat. 

But  not  even  she  could  long  doubt  the  nature  of  the  ova- 
tion. 

"  Bravo,  Antoine !  "  shouted  the  shabby  students  in  the 
cheap  places,  who  had  enjoyed  the  whole  immensely,  and 
the  discordance  not  least.  "  Epatant — recommencez — bis, 
bis!" 

"  Duchatel  has  struck  a  new  vein,  past  any  doubt,"  the 
couple  near  Madame  muttered  to  one  another.  . "  That  was 
quite  interesting;  one  would  not  say  the  boy  had  the 
strength." 

"  You've  done  it,  my  lad,"  gasped  the  English  accom- 
panist, furtively  wiping  his  brow,  for  he  also  had  suffered  a 
nervous  strain,  "  Sit  down,  for  Lord's  sake,  and  let  them 
bellow.    There's  loads  of  time." 

Antoine  regarded  him  so  far  as  to  retreat  to  the  piano, 
and  stood  leaning  an  elbow  upon  it  for  support,  while  he 
relaxed  his  muscles  and  regained  his  breath.  He  smiled 
once  at  Jacques,  whose  voice  had  been  the  first  to  reach  him  ; 
and  looked  next  towards  Madame  Duchatel ;  but  the  seat 
at  her  side  was  vacant  always,  and  she  was  leaning  across 
it,  speaking,  it  appeared,  to  her  pair  of  neighbours.  Antoine 
felt  relieved  that  she  had  found  friends,  since  she  was  his 
own  invitee,  and  Victor  had  deserted  her.  She  would  like 
the  next  part,  he  believed.    He  counted  on  her  approval  of 


286  SUCCESSION 

the  whole,  if  she  would  but  regard  it  fairly,  and  sit  it  out. 
It  was  not  all  so  "  awful  "  as  the  section  just  disposed  of, 
he  was  glad  to  think ;  and  she  had  evidently  lived  through 
that,  which  his  own  grandfather  could  never  have  done. 
The  accompanist  had  little  to  do  in  the  next  section,  and 
Antoine  intended  to  improve  it  a  trifle,  since  Victor  was 
not  there.  The  music  was  so  carelessly  truculent,  it  had 
made  him  rebellious.  There  were  some  little  changes,  of 
management  and  mechanism  chiefly,  for  which  he  had  been 
pulled  up  sharply  every  time,  when  he  had  attempted  them 
in  rehearsal.  Duchatel  made  no  allowance  for  human 
machinery,  in  writing  for  the  violin  ;  both  he  and  the  pianist 
had  been  set  impossibilities,  and  the  latter,  being  Victor's 
age,  had  protested.  Antoine  planned  at  ease  to  restate  these 
alterations,  while  he  waited  his  audience's  pleasure  to  let 
him  begin.  No  one  else  would  notice,  unless  the  cunning 
Jacques ;  and  Victor's  own  mother,  listening  there  in  her 
loge,  would  certainly  like  it  better.  He  would  have  to  go 
to  the  Duchatel  house  when  it  was  over;  that  was  a  mere 
necessary  formality.  Antoine's  social  instinct  told  him  that 
things  would  be  easier  between  the  three  of  them,  if  she 
were  already  pleased;  if  she  could  be  by  any  means  con- 
vinced of  the  music's  value,  in  which  he  believed  so  deeply. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  finale  that  a  harassed  ghost 
from  the  night  peered  into  the  artist's  room  behind  the 
stage,  and  found  M.  Charretteur  there  in  occupation.  He 
was  in  a  highly  ungraceful  attitude,  his  long  legs  stretched 
out,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Another  man  was  there 
as  well,  a  harmless-looking  person  of  a  dark  complexion, 
who  stood  holding  his  watch  in  one  hand,  the  other  on  the 
chimney-piece.  Jacques  had  his  back  to  this  gentleman, 
and  was  ignoring  him  carefully ;  but  he  seemed  neverthe- 
less relieved  at  the  new-comer's  appearance. 

"  Hullo,  you  look  sick,"  he  grinned.  "  Lost  your  way 
here,  I  suppose.    You  arrive  a  bit  late  for  the  fun." 

Victor  stopped  short.    "  You  mean  he's  still  at  it  ?  " 


VICTOR   IS   DIFFICULT  287 

"  He  repeated  the  Allegro,"  said  Jacques,  "  and  they  kept 
him  close  on  fifteen  minutes  after  the  first  movement." 

"  Liked  it  ?  "  said  Victor  wildly. 

"  Liked  it,  or  him."  Jacques  held  out  two  fingers  in  lazy 
congratulation,  "  I'd  like  to  try  the  thing  myself,"  he  said. 
"  It's  tremendous." 

"  You  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Rather.  Tremendously  ugly,  like  me.  To  see  the  gosse 
struggling,  with  his  thin  little  hands— I  had  a  mind  to  snatch 
the  fiddle  from  him,"  said  Jacques.  "  Couldn't  bear  looking 
at  the  end,  so  I  came  in  here." 

Duchatel  advanced  slowly,  gathering  his  manner  of  every- 
day. "And  where  have  you  hidden  since  the  spring?"  he 
drawled. 

.  Jacques  showed  by  one  dark  glance  that  he  saw  through 
the  w^ell-acted  interest.  It  was  quite  impossible  Duchatel 
should  be  thinking  of  anything  but  his  composition.  "  I 
went  to  the  devil  for  a  time,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  Then  I 
kicked  over  the  devil's  traces,  about  a  month  back,  and  took 
to  work." 

"  Savigny  ?  "  said  Duchatel,  having  glared  through  the 
eyeglass  a  minute. 

"  That's  one  of  his  names,"  said  Jacques. 

Bronne,  in  the  background,  glancing  his  trained  eye  from 
one  to  the  other,  decided  that  his  patient  was  the  better 
man. 

"  You're  all  right  then,"  said  Duchatel. 

"  I'd   cured  myself  before  his   precious  cure  began   to 

work,"  said  Jacques.     "  He's  nothing  but  a "     Behind 

him  a  watch  snapped  suddenly,  and  he  started. 

"  Time's  up,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  in  his  leisurely,  soft  voice. 
"  Will  you  explain  to  Antoine  that  I  could  not  stop?  I  am 
sorry  not  to  say  good-night  to  him." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Jacques,  without  turning. 

"  Will  you  look  us  up  some  time,  Charretteur?  " 

"  Not  probable,"  said  Jacques. 

"  May  one  come  to  see  you,  then  ?  " 


288  SUCCESSION 

"  One  may  not,"  said  Jacques,  more  sulky  than  before. 

"May  I?"  said  Louis,  just  before  he  left  the  room. 
There  was  no  response,  but,  glancing  back,  he  saw  a  one- 
shouldered  shrug,  which  made  M.  Charretteur  more  than 
ever  like  a  rather  surly  schoolboy,  conscious  of  his  master's 
eye.    Dr  Bronne  left,  apparently  contented. 

"Who's  that?"  said  Duchatel. 

"  The  devil's  little  dog,"  said  Jacques.  "  Pity  he's  gone 
to  the  bad  so  early,  isn't  it?  He  can't  be  older  than  you. 
There."  he  added,  "that's  finishing."  He  rose  as  though 
relieved.  Having  observed  Victor's  back  a  moment,  he  had 
an  idea.  "  I  say,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  You  shouldn't  have 
missed  the  second  movement.  Rash  to  leave  the  nursery 
alone." 

"  How?"  said  Duchatel,  half  turning. 

"  He  forgot,  I  expect,"  grinned  Jacques.  "  He's  playing 
without  the  notes  to-night.  A  good  dodge,  that,  in  some 
cases.    If  I  wasn't  so  ugly  myself,  I  might  adopt  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  said  the  composer,  and  his  voice 
was  icy. 

"  Only  he  is  using  his  charms  for  all  they're  worth.  The 
place  is  thick  with  women.  You'll  be  popular  yet,  mon 
vieux."  This,  on  Jacques'  part,  was  not  deliberate,  but 
rather  reckless  mischief.  The  sight  of  Duchatel's  perfection 
commonly  stirred  him  to  such  remarks,  and  Victor  was 
generally  well  able  to  bear  them.  But  to-night  the  state  of 
his  nerves  was  such  that  he  could  bear  nothing  at  all,  and 
to  Jacques'  surprise  the  jest  closed  the  conversation. 

When  the  boy  came  in,  Jacques  was  easily  the  first  to 
meet  him.  He  took  him  by  the  upper  arms  in  a  powerful 
grasp,  and  leaning  down,  spoke  low.  Twenty  seconds  would 
literally  have  covered  all  the  time  he  took,  for  he  was  rapid 
as  he  was,  apparently,  incisive.  Antoine  bent  his  brows  to 
attention,  but  did  not  answer ;  and  when  Jacques  let  go  and 
departed  incontinently,  looked  after  him  as  though  a  little 
dazed.  But  he  had  no  time  to  debate  Jacques'  mysteries; 
he  was  recalled  again  and  again  by  his  elegant  public,  piti- 


VICTOR   IS    DIFFICULT  289 

less  as  such  publics  are  when  a  sensation  is  all  they  need. 
"Go!"  he  entreated  Victor  once,  but  entreaty  was  useless. 
Duchatel  refused  utterly  to  show  himself,  and  slipped  out 
adroitly  just  as  the  press  of  curiosity  and  congratulation 
broke  in  by  the  other  door. 

Meanwhile,  Madame  sat  rock-like  in  her  place,  waiting 
for  her  son,  whom  she  expected  at  least  to  escort  her  home. 
Ten  minutes  elapsed,  and  she  froze  through  her  lorgnette 
the  officials  who  would  have  dislodged  her.  After  fifteen 
minutes,  to  their  relief,  the  alarming  old  lady  arose,  and 
stalked  round  to  the  door  of  the  artist's  room,  within  which 
she  still  heard  the  clatter  of  many  voices,  though  the  hall 
behind  was  empty. 

"  Is  the  young  Edgell  here  ?  "  she  demanded  severely.  As 
the  group  in  the  centre  parted  in  surprise,  she  discovered 
him,  half-seated  on  the  table,  which  was  strewn  with  his 
flowers,  and  blinking  patiently  under  the  remarks  of  a  lady 
in  black  velvet. 

"  Ah,  chere  Madame,"  cried  this  lady,  wheeling  about. 
"  A  thousand  felicitations  on  your  son.  He  was  seen  for  a 
little  moment,  smiled  and  vanished.  Is  he  not  too  torment- 
ing?" 

"  I  had  come  to  that  conclusion,"  said  Madame  drily,  for 
she  was  barely  acquainted  with  Madame  Vincent.  "  Per- 
sonally, I  have  been  tormented  sufficiently — for  others  I 
cannot  speak,  Monsieur  Edgell  " — she  fixed  him — "  per- 
haps you  did  not  have  my  message." 

The  boy  made  a  slight  gesture,  his  brows  suggesting 
comedy.  He  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  voice  and  his 
social  resources,  and  this  aid,  though  rough,  was  timely. 

"Victor  did  not  give  it,  hey?"  said  Madame.  "Good. 
We  will  disregard  him,  for  he  deserves  no  better.  Come 
along." 

There  v;as  general  amusement,  and  some  outcry.  The 
intruder  was  rather  a  comical  little  figure ;  and  Madame 
Vincent,  counting  on  her  pearls  and  fashionable  panoply, 
planted  a  few  languid  observations.    But  she  got  far  better 


290  SUCCESSION 

than  she  gave,  for  the  mother  of  Duchatel  was  no  fool,  and 
had  been  storing  up  acerbity. 

*' And  his  flowers?"  the  black  lady  cried  tenderly,  as 
though  the  boy  had  been  an  infant.  *'  Are  they,  chere  Ma- 
dame, to  be  withered  like  us?  " 

"  Leave  them,"  said  Madame  shortly.  "  I  will  send  my 
servant." 

Antoine  picked  up  one  bunch  of  violets  from  the  little 
heap  on  the  table,  and  prepared  to  follow  her.  He  apol- 
ogised slightly  to  those  near  him,  and  gave  Madame  Vincent 
his  hand. 

"  Foresight,  dear  child,"  she  murmured,  glancing  at  the 
little  bunch.    "  That  is  all  you  hope  to  save." 

"  For  grandpapa,"  he  said,  flushing  at  the  impertinence, 
for  the  older  woman  must  have  heard.  However,  Madame 
Duchatel,  as  conquerer,  merely  smiled  and  pursed  her  lips. 
In  the  carriage  she  addressed  him  in  a  snap. 

"  The  flowers  are  to  be  mine,  then,  are  they  ?  "  she  said. 

"  If  you  like  them,"  he  answered.  "  These  violets  are 
nearly  dead."    He  smelt  what  he  was  holding. 

*'  And  so  you  present  them  to  your  grandfather,  eh  ?  Will 
he  not  credit  your  success  without  ?  " 

Antoine  failed  to  answer. 

"You  have  a  bad  cold,"  she  said,  pouncing  so  that  he 
winced. 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  he  admitted. 

"  I  said  a  bad  one,"  said  Madame.  "  What  do  you  take 
for  it?" 

"  I  expect,"  said  Antoine,  having  thought  a  little,  "  the 
bonne  will  give  me  some  tisane." 

"  Nonsensical  trash,"  replied  his  alarming  companion, 
and  spoke  no  more,  for  the  way  was  short  to  her  door. 

"  Sit  there,  and  don't  talk  at  all,"  were  her  orders,  on 
their  arrival  in  the  exquisite  comfort  of  Victor's  little 
sanctum.  "  Food  is  the  first  thing,  and  then  I  will  find 
something  for  your  throat.  Here  is  my  son,  who  can  under- 
take the  talking,  doubtless.  He  has  probably  to  express  his 
thanks." 


VICTOR   IS    DIFFICULT  291 

Silence  ensued  on  her  departure.  Duchatel  was  certainly 
present  in  the  room,  a  faultless  appearance;  but  in  spirit, 
at  least  to  Antoine's  sensitive  faculties,  non-existent.  He 
had  never  before  had  to  suffer  that  little  manner  of  ice, 
though  he  had  frequently  seen  it  applied  to  others. 

"  Jacques  wants  to  learn  the  sonata,"  he  said  at  last,  lean- 
ing to  the  fire.    "  Will  you  give  him  a  copy  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  one,  if  you  like,"  said  Duchatel. 

A  pause.     "Don't  you  like  Jacques?"  said  Antoine. 

"  Comme  ga.  I  ha^'e  no  wish  to  attach  him  to  my  serv- 
ice. One,"  said  Victor,  "  is  quite  enough."  His  voice  was 
not  encouraging,  and  there  was  another  interval. 

"  Why  did  you  go  away?"  said  Antoine,  with  an  effort. 
"  W^ere  you  afraid  that  I  should  do  it  wrong?  " 

"  Dear  me,  no,"  said  Victor.    "  Do  not  be  absurd," 

"  I  did,"  said  the  boy,  rather  low. 

"  Well,"  said  Duchatel,  after  a  pause.  "  You  know  best, 
evidently.  You  keep  your  finger,  as  they  say,  on  the  public 
pulse.    That  is  the  full  meaning  of  an  interpretation.' 

Antoine  made  no  effort  to  understand  this  subtlety,  but 
he  felt  the  tone.  Madame  came  back  before  he  found 
another  remark,  and  for  once  her  son  saw  her  entrance 
with  relief.  He  had  no  immediate  wish  to  hurt  the  boy, 
but  he  was  hardly  sure  of  himself  at  the  latter  end  of  a  day 
of  deliberate  self-torment.  Victor's  "  temperament  "  was 
a  thing  of  interest  to  himself,  and  he  spent  much  study  on 
the  mettlesome  creature ;  but  when  he  had  given  it  rein  for 
a  certain  period,  it  had  a  habit  of  rearing  suddenly,  taking 
even  its  rider  by  surprise.  At  such  times,  he  could  only 
warn  his  best  friends  to  beware  of  kicks,  pathetically. 

"Have  you  been  talking?"  demanded  Madame  of  her 
guest,  and  he  admitted  it.  "  Humph !  "  she  said.  "  Well, 
you  can  fill  your  mouth,  if  that's  the  only  way." 

The  method  failed,  for  he  refused  food  politely  and 
steadily.  It  vexed  Madame,  as  did  his  entire  appearance; 
for  at  these  close  quarters,  and  under  a  good  light,  even  her 


292  SUCCESSION 

eyes  could  tell  that  things  were  not  as  they  should  be.    He 
had  worked,  and  should  be  hungry,  and  so  she  told  him. 

"  I  expect  I  shall  be  soon  again,"  said  Antoine.  "  Is  your 
parrot  well  ?  "  ' 

But  Madame,  with  Charles'  boy's  education  in  hand,  did 
not  intend  to  talk  about  her  parrot.  She  fussed  about,  dart- 
ing her  tongue  at  him  at  intervals.  He  replied  invariably, 
planting  his  rapid  remarks  in  every  pause,  in  spite  of  her 
reiterated  injunction  to  him  to  keep  silence,  and  spare  his 
voice.  Victor  was  not  of  the  least  assistance,  but  remained 
a  slightly  satirical  spectator  of  the  scene. 

Antoine  roused  himself  at  last,  and  dropped  the  hands  he 
had  locked  across  his  brow.  It  was  as  though  he  had  sud- 
denly decided  he  could  make  nothing  of  the  interview. 

"  It  is  very  late,"  he  said,  having  cleared  his  husky  tone. 
"  I  must  go  home.     Good-night." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Madame.  "  Well,  perhaps  you  would 
be  best  in  bed.  The  carriage  is  still  there."  Having  glanced 
at  her  silent  son,  she  added  grimly:  "As  Victor  is  in  a 
temper,  I  will  escort  you." 

"If  I  am  alone,"  suggested  Antoine,  "  I  shall  not  talk." 

"  Nor  would  you  if  I  were  there,"  she  retorted.  "  Well, 
sir,  I  was  taught  manners  at  least.  I  have  enjoyed  a  most 
agreeable  evening." 

"  And  I,"  he  echoed,  looking  over  her  head, 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  she  ejaculated.  Then,  as  his  eyes 
came  to  hers :  "  I  mean,  my  observation  required  no  an- 
swer. All  observations  do  not.  Victor — have  you  nothing 
to  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  his,"  said  Victor,  "  that  I  cannot  echo 
you — ^both." 

"  Are  you  not  grateful?  " 

Her  son  roused.  "  To  be  sure.  Miserably  grateful— and 
furious." 

"  Furious  ?  " 

"  He  made  my  most  intimate  work  the  occasion  of  a  per- 
sonal triumph." 


VICTOR   IS   DIFFICULT  293 

His  mother  gazed  blankly  at  him.  "  Good  heavens,  you 
insult  him,"  she  cried,  and  turned  almost  helplessly  to  An- 
toine.  The  boy  looked  genuinely  shocked  for  the  moment. 
He  had  already  risen,  but  he  grasped  the  chair  again,  as 
though  for  support.    Then  he  turned  to  go. 

But  the  old  Madame,  stiff  as  she  was,  was  before  him. 
"  Stay,  my  dear,''  she  said,  putting  a  shaking  hand  upon  him. 
"  This  is  not  how  we  treat  our  guests.  You  can  barely  stand, 
still  less  defend  yourself.  Sit  down."  Having  replaced 
him,  she  swung  about,  quite  imposing  in  her  royal  anger. 
"  Victor,"  she  said,  "  this  child  has  exhausted  himself  in 
your  service.'  You  will  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  the  servants  to 
wait  for  half-an-hour — and  to  leave  us  alone." 

"  You  are  considerate,  ma  mere ;  I  thank  you,"  said 
Duchatel,  who,  having  allowed  his  high  spirit  the  indul- 
gence, was  now  overcome  with  fury  at  the  self-betrayal. 
But  he  preserved  his  languid  grace,  and  left  them  slowly. 

His  mother,  whose  rigid  ideas  of  decorum  had  had  a 
shock,  was  silent  for  quite  a  period.  She  meant  to  get  a 
few  facts  out  of  Antoine,  but  she  gave  him  time.  Victor 
was  of  course  unpardonable ;  but  even  under  insult  a  boy 
of  his  age  had  no  right  to  turn  white  and  dizzy  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice.  Lacking  the  science  of  the  great  Savigny, 
Madame  went  by  rule  of  thumb — a  rule  corrected  by  ob- 
servation of  her  son  and  others.  Nerves,  she  would  have 
said,  avenged  themselves  in  advance,  not  after  an  unqual- 
ified triumph.  Relief  was  a  healing  thing,  a  beneficent 
angel,  not  often  translating  itself  into  weakness.  The  boy 
had  a  violent  cold,  of  course,  and  might  have  been  out  of 
sorts  beforehand.  She  watched  his  changes  of  colour  with 
her  sharp  old  eyes,  and  made  no  comment  until  she  had 
coaxed  him  to  eat,  and  restored  what  she  supposed  was  his 
natural  tint  with  warmth  and  good  wine. 

Then  she  began  to  question  and  to  lecture,  heedfully  at 
first,  but  with  growing  assurance  as  he  resisted.  Her  son, 
to  her  annoyance,  came  back  to  announce  the  carriage  be- 
fore she  had  got  any  details  of  real  value;    for  Henrielte's 


294  SUCCESSION 

boy  was  an  odd,  evasive  little  creature,  and  did  not  by  any 
means  let  her  have  the  discourse  all  her  own  way.  Withal, 
he  was  amazingly  frank  when  she  least  expected  it,  and  she 
had  some  ado  not  to  let  her  son  see  her  discomfiture. 

"  The  auto  is  ready,  mother,"  Duchatel  observed  blandly 
at  one  point. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Madame,  with  dignity,  "  It  is  about 
the  hour  I  said.    This  boy  is  now  more  fit  to  move." 

"  I  am  very  well,"  murmured  Antoine.  He  lay  full  length, 
watching  her  back  as  she  retreated,  for  she  was  pacing  to 
and  fro,  darting  at  him  anew  every  time  she  turned.  His 
eyebrows  were  most  expressive  of  the  situation,  but  he  did 
not  look  at  Victor. 

"  You  have  been  rather  ill,"  said  Madame,  with  emphasis, 
as  though  quoting,  "  twice  this  year.  Do  I  understand  cor- 
rectly?   In  each  case  after  a  difficult  concert." 

"  The  Miinchen  one  was  easy,"  said  Antoine,  "  with  Fritz  j 
Reuss."  j 

"  Don't  prevaricate,"  said  Madame.  "  After  a  public  per- 1 
formance,  is  what  I  mean."  j 

"It  was  very  public,"  he  admitted,  looking  at  thai 
ceiling.  ^ 

"  Well !  "  said  Madame,  pouncing,  "  then  it  is  quite  clear,! 
is  it  not,  that  you  should  stop  performing?"  ! 

"  Mother!  "  Victor  was  stirred  to  protest.  Madame,  with 
an  eye  of  triumph,  and  her  fingers  locked,  awaited  the 
victim's  reply.    It  was  other  than  she  expected. 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  said.    "  That  is  quite  clear." 

"  To  yourself  ?  "  said  Madame  grimly. 

"  To  everybody,  I  believe,  except  Raymond  Savigny  and 
grandpapa." 

"  In  short,"  said  Madame,  seeing  her  chance,  "  with  thd 
exception  of  the  only  people  who  matter," 

"  Grandpapa  matters,  yes." 

"  Are  you  not  accustomed  to  regard  the  doctor's  opin-j 


VICTOR   IS    DIFFICULT  295 

"  I  imagine  I  know  when  I  feel  sick  without  him,"  said 
Antoine,  with  a  smile, 

"  Well,   of   all "     His   hostess   stopped   and   glared. 

"  What  other  doctor  have  you  seen  ?  "  He  mentioned  care- 
lessly a  well-known  name.  "  Weber  ?  "  snapped  Madame. 
"  But  he  is  heart." 

"  It  was  for  the  heart  I  saw  him,"  said  Antoine,  "  when 
Savigny  was  not  sure." 

"  Not  sure !  I  like  the  child's  language."  She  paced  for 
some  seconds,  and  curiosity  overcame  her.  "  What  did 
Weber  say  ?  " 

Again  her  son  protested  behind,  but  he  was  disregarded. 

"  Oh,  just  what  Savigny  told  me  he  would,"  said  Antoine. 

"Told  yoii?" 

"  Yes ;  in  the  omnibus,  going  to  Neuilly.  I  expect," 
added  Antoine  to  himself,  "  Savigny  made  him  say  it.  He 
can." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  mention,"  said  Madame,  with 
dignity,  "that  I  know  M.  Weber.  He  is  an  acquaintance; 
and  I  regard  him  as  a  remarkable  man." 

"Yes?"  said  Antoine  politely.  "  He  is  kind.  He  has  a 
beautiful  dog.  He  asked  me  some  things  about  the  pro- 
grammes, when  Savigny  had  gone:  about  the  order,  do  you 
see?    That  does  make  a  difference,  of  course." 

"  Does  your  doctor  not  reckon  for  that  ?  "  said  Madame. 

"  They  are  not  his  things,"  said  Antoine. 

"How  long  have  you  had  this  idea,  may  I  ask?"  said 
Madame,  after  having  walked  quite  to  the  end  of  the  study, 
and  returned.  Her  methods  had  extorted  rather  more  con- 
fidence than  she  had  bargained  for,  and  she  scarce  knew 
what  to  do  with  it.  But  her  natural  obstinacy  would  not 
let  her  desist,  or  spare  the  victim  the  fruits  of  his  rashness. 
He  would  have  to  bear  it,  and  the  carriage  must  wait. 

"I?"  said  Antoine.  "Since  the  spring.  Do  not  tell 
Savigny,"  he  added  of  a  sudden.  "  He  would  be  rather 
angry  to  know  I  think  it  after  all." 

"Why?" 


296  SUCCESSION 

"  Because,  you  see,  when  I  imagine  to  feel  horrible,  and 
then  it  comes,  that  is  my  fault.  .  .  .  And  also  because 
of  grandpapa,"  he  appended  rapidly.  "  Of  course  he  thinks 
of  him." 

"  Has  this  person  argued  it  with  you  ?  "  said  Madame 
rather  helplessly. 

"  Savigny  argues  alone,"  said  the  boy,  with  another  glint 
of  humour.  "  In  Miinchen,  he  did.  Pour  moi — je  laissais 
faire." 

"  I  understand,"  said  his  hostess.  "  You  have  engage- 
ments for  the  whole  winter." 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  assented.    "  For  this  season,  I  am  to  play." 
"  You  are  obliged,  eh?  " 

"  We  have  arranged  it,"  he  said,  but  his  fingers  on  the 

chair  were  snapping  restlessly.  ■ 

"  Leave  it,  mother,"  Victor  murmured.  j 

"He  need  not  answer,"  she  retorted  grimly.     "How,"i 

she  said,  with  concentrated  irony,  having  looked  Antoinej 

over,  "  would  you  propose,  at  this  point,  to  withdraw  from; 

your  career  ?  "  ; 

"I  do  not  propose  it."     He  roused,  and  frowned.     "II 

should  tell  my  father,"  he  said.    "  He  is  very  angry  already,! 

and  I  could  make  him  more,  if  I  talked." 

"  Do  you  not  talk  to  your  father  ?  "  : 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  came  home.  He  has  somej 
work  for  his  company  at  Amiens.  I  have  been  here — oc-^ 
cupied."  I 

"  Ah !    How  do  you  know  he  is  angry,  then  ?  "  j 

For  the  first  time  Antoine  paused  himself ;  till  this  point 
his  answers  had  all  been  equally  rapid  and  prompt.  "  You 
wish  to  hear?  "  he  said.  "  There  was  a  lot  of  money  Reuss 
gave  me  for  the  German  concert.  I  was  amused,  because 
with  him,  I  had  not  thought  of  it.  So  I  sent  the  notes  tc 
my  papa — '  pour  rire,'  you  understand.  But  he  was  an- 
noyed, and  he  sent  them  back.  He  said  I  could  tell  my 
uncle  that  money  would  do  for  the  next  doctor;  and  a1 
least  he  was  not  going  to  be  paid  to  stand  aside.     He  had 


VICTOR   IS    DIFFICULT  297 

quarrelled  with  my  uncle,  I  expect,  before  I  came.     They 
often  do,''  said  Antoine,  in  appendix. 

"Ha!"  said  Madame.  "Apropos,  what  of  Lucien?  I 
mean,  what  does  he  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  a  great  deal,"  said  Antoine,  "  about  grand- 
papa— who  is  his  papa,  do  you  see?  Grandpapa  likes  so 
much  to  hear  about  the  concerts."  He  fingered  the  little 
bouquet  of  dead  violets  at  his  side,  and  then,  on  an  impulse, 
threw  out  the  other  hand  to  her.  "  Please  do  not  ask  me 
any  more,"  he  said,  with  his  sudden  brilliant  smile. 

Madame,  who  was  pacing  severely  to  and  fro,  wavered 
and  stopped  at  his  side.  "  You  expect  me  to  be  silent,  do 
you?  "  she  said,  \\ 
she  took  the  hand. 

"  Of  course  you  will  be  silent.  Grandpapa  is  not  well 
now."  At  the  slight  stammer  in  the  last  words,  Victor 
moved  restlessly.  Exhausted  by  his  own  conflict  as  he  was, 
he  had  not  spoken  in  the  victim's  defence,  but  he  winced 
for  him,  even  with  exaggeration. 

"  Did  you  know  this  ?  "  His  mother  faced  round  on  him 
without  w^arning. 

"  I  guessed  about  the  half,"  he  said.  "  I  never  should 
have  thought  of  asking." 

"  Affectation,"  she  retorted  sharply.  "  It  is  kinder  to  ask 
questions  direct,  than  to  stab  sidelong  as  you  did  lately.  Is 
it  not  ?  "     She  turned  on  the  boy. 

"  Much  kinder,"  he  said  proudly.  "  You  are  kind.  No- 
body has  asked  me." 

"You  mean  you  enjoy  the  question,  mon  petit?"  said 
Duchatel. 

"  Not  enjoy."  He  hesitated.  "  I  had  not  expected  one 
to  ask.  Perhaps  " — he  hesitated  anew — "  I  was  stupid  to 
say  some  of  it.    I  cannot  think  properly  to-night." 

Madame  Duchatel,  standing  stiffly  at  his  side,  looked  at 
the  long  fingers  grasping  hers,  and  laid  the  other  little  bony 
hand  upon  them. 

"  It  is  the  habit  of  your  family,"  she  said,  in  her  grim- 


298  SUCCESSION 

mest  tone,  "  to  say  things  first,  and  to  regret  them  after- 
wards. Without  approving  the  disposition,  I  am  pleased 
to  find  you  doing  the  same  as  your  mother  and  your  uncles 
before  you.  It  is  possible,  as  my  son  took  the  trouble  to 
point  out,  that  I  have  profited  by  the  family  faiblesse  to- 
night; but  you  may  believe  that  I  really  v^ished  as  an  old 
friend  to  know  how  you  stood.  Thanks  to  you " — she 
actually  broke  into  a  laugh — "  I  know  pretty  completely. 
I  think  among  all  Lemaures  I  have  encountered,  my  dear, 
for  sheer  ease  of  tongue,  I  give  you  the  prize.  Now,"  as 
he  swung  to  his  feet  and  faced  her,  "  what  have  you  to 
say?" 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  talked  so  much,"  he  said,  lifting  his 
great  eyes  to  hers,  and  put  a  hand  up  to  his  throat. 

She  stiffened,  taken  aback ;  in  her  increasing  interest  and 
curiosity,  she  had  completely  overlooked  the  fact  that  she 
might  be  hurting  him.  j 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Victor,"  she  snapped  across  her 
shoulder ;  but  it  was  impossible,  after  the  schoolboy  "  score," 
to  get  Henriette's  annoying  son  to  attend  to  her  seriously.) 
Her  prescription,  pronounced  with  great  incisiveness,  in-' 
eluded  solitary  confinement  till  midday,  warmth,  proper' 
nourishment,  certain  drugs,  and  silence  above  all.  He  stood 
in  front  of  her,  looking  intelligent,  and  thanked  her  with 
charm ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  disappeared  that  Madame 
realised  that,  beyond  his  engaging  promises,  she  had  no 
means  whatever  of  certifying  his  attention  to  her  counsel. 


I 


» 


CHAPTER   XI 

JACQUES   IN   DIFFICULTIES 


Margot,  as  it  emerged,  was  of  Madame  Duchatel's  opmion ; 
and  Antoine,  though  he  did  his  best  to  keep  his  cold  out  of 
sight,  or  rather  out  of  hearing,  was  detained  severely  in- 
doors the  following  day.  He  was  much  annoyed,  as  he  had 
laid  it  out  already  in  mind,  in  his  purpose  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem of  Charretteur.  He  had  thought  at  intervals  during  the 
night  of  that  young  man,  and  had  arrived  at  some  new  and 
disturbing  impressions  concerning  him.  That  these  im- 
pressions might  in  any  way  be  connected  with  his  own  fever- 
ish condition,  did  not  naturally  occur  to  him.  The  reason- 
able explanation  very  seldom  did.  He  was  in  consequence 
manssade  with  the  cook,  who  constituted  herself  his  gaoler, 
and  impatient  with  all  his  surroundings.  A  remarkable 
event  in  the  late  forenoon  did  not  at  all  improve  matters. 
This  was  the  arrival  of  Madame  Vincent's  beautiful  violin, 
brought  by  a  messenger  in  livery,  with  a  letter  of  most 
delicate  flattery,  directed  to  M.  Lemaure. 

Margot,  bringing  the  offering  in  to  them  in  triumph,  her 
brown  face  beaming  with  excitement,  found  its  reception 
from  the  gentleman  honoured  quite  other  than  she  expected. 

"  I  do  not  want  it,"  he  explained  rapidly  to  M.  Lemaure, 
who  was  almost  as  excited  as  Margot,  and  far  more  pleased 
than  he.    "  May  I  not  tell  her?    Will  you  write?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  can  refuse,  my  love,"  said  the  old 

artist.    "  It  is  the  case  of  a  lady,  to  begin  with.    Then  she 

has  had  your  name  engraved,  you  observe  " — he  touched 

the  beautiful  case  with  his  hand — "  and  many  people  must 

299 


300  SUCCESSION 

already  know  of  it.  To  refuse  would  be  unnecessarily 
churlish,  when  matters  have  gone  so  far."  He  smiled  at 
the  boy's  expression.  "  One  has  frequently  to  bear  these 
things,  from  the  rich,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  kindly 
satire. 

"  But  when  I  do  not  like  her,"  Antoine  cried,  holding 
back  the  wrist  his  grandfather  had  laid  over  the  bow.  "  I 
do  not  want  that.  I  have  my  own."  He  looked  at  the 
stranger  in  the  fine  case  with  almost  violent  distaste. 

"  Had  she  not  warned  you  ?     Victor  seemed  to  know." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  his  colour  rising.  "  I  did  not 
understand.  She  has  a  stupid  way  of  talking.  And  last 
night  so  many  people  talked  to  me." 

"  You  accepted  unaware,  hey  ?  "  The  old  man  laughed 
at  him. 

"  I  did  not  accept,"  he  cried.  "  She  knows  I  have  my 
own — that  I  like  it  best." 

"  Try  it,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  extending  the  stranger.  "  It 
may  be  better  than  thine." 

"  No — I  will  not !  "  He  was  very  nearly  in  tears  as  he 
repulsed  the  bow. 

His  grandfather  observed  him  with  surprise.  "  You  are 
not  yourself  to-day,  my  child,"  he  said  more  gravely.  "  You 
are  not  required  to  cast  your  own  away.  Nor  is  it  unheard 
of  to  have  two,  for  an  artist  of  any  standing.  An  alter- ; 
native  can  be  useful,  as  you  must  know.  Come,  master'- 
yourself,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  "  I  should  like  to  hear 
the  tone.    I  wish  to,  Antoine." 

It  was  useless :  Antoine  would  not ;  and  the  old  musician, 
his  curiosity  all  awake,  and  one  hand  incapable,  grew  im- 
patient with  his  obstinacy.  It  was  no  satisfaction  to  M. 
Lemaure  to  caress  the  beautiful  thing,  to  examine  it  inside 
and  out,  to  prove  it  genuine,  unique,  and  perfect  in  condi-^ 
tion,  when  he  had  no  means  of  coaxing  out  the  voice  it 
held.  That  was  the  first  impulse,  not  the  last,  to  one  who' 
had  discoursed  on  strings  for  half  his  life.  The  utmost  he 
could  do,  however,  by  the  exercise  of  all  his  authority,  was 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       301 

to  make  the  boy  write  a  letter,  at  his  command  and  almost 
at  his  dictation ;  and  even  so,  the  thanks  read  coldly. 

"  He  is  not  well,"  M.  Lemaure  said  shortly  to  Margot, 
who  was  amazed  and  distressed  to  find  the  pair  at  issue  on 
this  last  day,  and  on  such  an  occasion  above  all.  "  It  is 
troublesome  just  now,  but  we  must  be  gentle  with  him. 
There  seems  no  doubt  he  must  travel  to-morrow  night  at 
latest,  well  or  not."  He  picked  up  a  letter  from  his  son, 
that  lay  upon  the  table,  and  Margot  heard  him  sigh.  The 
problem  of  the  boy  perplexed  him  occasionally,  for  all  the 
careful  reassurance  dealt  out  to  him  by  his  surroundings, 
the  paeans  in  the  papers,  and  the  periods  of  forgetfulness 
his  tired  brain  permitted  him.  It  surely  must  be  wrong,  for 
instance,  that  so-called  happy  youth,  on  the  morrow  of  a 
success,  should  look  as  Antoine  did  to-day. 

M.  Lemaure  began  a  letter  to  Lucien,  wistful,  urging  him 
to  close  attention,  to  patience  above  all;  full  of  the  most 
delicate  hints  and  enlightening  memories — for  his  earliest 
years  grew  clearer  as  the  rest  grew  dim :  invaluable  to  any 
teacher,  beyond  a  doubt,  and  a  relic  of  value  for  his  son — 
had  it  ever  been  sent.  But  he  left  it  in  the  middle,  over- 
looked it  owing  to  some  household  interruption,  and  it  was 
tossed  away  among  his  papers.  Nor  was  he  reminded  of  the 
subject  at  once,  for  the  boy  came  to  him  in  the  evening  in 
a  much  happier  mood,  agreed  placably  to  visit  Madame  Vin- 
cent on  the  morrow  before  his  train,  and  heard  out  his 
grandfather's  serious  exhortations  as  to  his  behaviour  there 
with  clasped  hands  and  lowered  eyes. 

"I  will  take  them  both  to  England,  hein?"  volunteered 
Antoine,  glancing  from  the  new  case  to  the  old.  "  That 
will  be  curious  to  have  two.  Imagine  that  '  douanier '  when 
he  sees  them.  I  shall  say  to  him — this  is  mine,  and  that  I 
am  looking  after — for  a  lady."  He  giggled  at  the  idea. 
"  Because  it  is  prettier  to  look  at,  do  you  see,  with  all  that 
gold." 

"  I  was  thinking  you  had  best  not  take  that  case,"  said  his 
guardian.  "  It  might  be  stolen.  I  have  an  old  one  that  will 
serve." 


302  SUCCESSION 

"  It  was  stupid  for  her  to  have  it  anyhow  ?  "  said  Antoine, 
pursuing  his  thoughts.  "  I  expect  it  would  not  Hke  it,  in 
her  house.  I  think  it  was  cold  a  little."  He  touched  the 
new  arrival,  with  the  tip  of  a  delicate  finger. 

"  Play  it  to  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  in  gentle  encourage- 
ment. He  could  not  but  be  amused  at  the  stages  of  unwill- 
ing adoption,  for  all  his  impatience  to  hear  the  stranger's 
voice. 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  said  Antoine,  but  without  resentment. 
-"  I  mean,  not  yet.    Papa  will  be  surprised  to  see  it,  hein  ?  " 

"  Will  you  see  your  father?  "  M.  Lemaure  spoke  quickly, 
for  the  boy  had  turned  to  him. 

"  He  comes  to  the  train  at  Amiens."  A  pause.  "  He  gets 
into  the  train,"  said  Antoine,  with  increasing  swiftness. 
**  He  comes  to  England  with  me." 

"  Aha !  "  M.  Lemaure  was  enlightened.  "  That  is  the 
origin  of  this  change  of  temper,  is  it?  When  didst  thou 
hear?" 

"  To-day — to-night.  I  have  the  post  card  to  say  it."  M. 
Lemaure,  glancing  down  at  what  he  was  caressing,  saw 
his  son-in-law's  clear  hand.  "  He  says  why  he  is  going, 
too,"  proceeded  Antoine.    "  No,  do  not  look.    Guess  why." 

"  Something  important?  "  A  giggle  was  the  only  answer. 
His  grandson  seemed  profoundly  amused  by  the  English 
card's  contents. 

"  V-very  important,"  he  agreed.  "  Oh,  you  will  never 
guess.  Papa  is  too  silly  in  his  ideas,  for  you  to  think  about. 
I  will  tell  you,  hein?  " 

"  Tell  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  to  spare  excitement. 

*'  He  comes — to  take  me.  To  conduct  me,  do  you  see  ? 
Just  to  London,  and  back  by  the  first  train,  and  the  office  at 
Amiens  the  next  day.  He  is  coming  for  me !  Look,  if  he 
does  not  mean  that." 

Taking  the  card  from  his  eager  hands,  the  old  man  read 
it  through.    Jem  Edgell's  post  card  style  was  peculiar:  he 
had  a  special  language  for  that  medium,  with  his  children  1 
especially.    It  seemed  dry  to  the  Frenchman,  but  it  was  not  i 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       303 

without  its  significance.  He  suspected  more  behind  the 
short  sentences  than  met  the  eye. 

"Can  you  read  it?"  said  Antoine,  as  his  grandfather 
lingered  over  the  English  longer  than  seemed  necessary. 

"  Yes,  darling.  It  is  clearly  written,  as  always.  Tell  me 
— my  memory  is  so  bad.  Has  he  not  seen  you  since  your 
return  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     He  had  only  Sundays,  and  I  could  not  go." 

"  Since  you  are  eyes  and  hands  to  an  aged  relation,  eh? 
I  fear  I  am  often  a  selfish  person,  Bebe.  Have  I  been  a 
burden  ?  "  He  laid  his  capable  hand  beneath  the  boy's  chin, 
as  he  crouched  low  at  his  side. 

"  No,"  he  ejaculated.  "  Papa  is  not  angry  for  that.  He 
understood." 

"  You  expect  his  anger?    Tell  me  why  he  is  vexed?" 

"  He  is  not  vexed,"  Antoine  assured  him.  "  It  is  just 
how  English  people  write."  He  studied  the  card  again  in- 
tently. "  Papa  will  travel  without  any  ticket  to  Calais," 
he  murmured.  "  That  is  because  he  has  worked  for  the 
Nord.    It  is  very  convenient.    I  am  glad  he  comes  with  me." 

Even  when  closely  pressed  he  would  not  explain  all  the 
relief  that  was  clear  in  expression  and  tone.  His  grand- 
father was  left  to  ask  himself  whether,  after  all  his  assur- 
ances, he  dreaded  the  long  journey ;  or  whether  James,  in 
intimate  correspondence,  had  been  hinting  at  his  general 
discontent,  and  adding  that  to  his  son's  various  anxieties. 
There  was  no  question,  at  least,  but  that  this  valuable  post 
card  had  cleared  up  much. 

Antoine's  last  day  in  France  proved  most  interesting,  and 
finished,  without  any  warning,  in  one  of  the  most  thrilling 
experiences  of  his  life. 

He  paid  Madame  Vincent  a  morning  call,  found  the 
lady  most  afifable,  and  said,  as  he  assured  his  grandfather, 
some  beautiful  things.  Their  beauty,  for  M.  Lemaure, 
could  not  be  doubted,  from  his  exalted  expression.  Be- 
sides, once  face  to  face  in  company,  and  not  vexed  by  the 


304  SUCCESSION 

intrusion  of  pen  and  paper,  Antoine's  sense  of  dramatic 
fitness  could  be  trusted.  He  had  proved  it  too  often  to 
doubt. 

The  new  violin  accompanied  him,  and  he  played  to  a 
select  circle  of  his  hostess's  acquaintance  a  movement  of 
Tartini,  in  the  course  of  which  he  became  himself  quite 
overcome  by  the  instrument's  resources.  At  the  end,  he 
informed  the  company,  to  their  vast  amusement,  that  it 
was  very  good  indeed,  and  proposed  instantly  to  repeat  the 
whole.  His  benefactress  granted  him  leave,  herself  almost 
helpless  with  laughter.  Antoine's  surprised  respect  for  his 
own  performance  was,  in  her  opinion,  too  original ;  and  the 
"'  etceteras  "  had  a  strong  taste  for  originality,  even  if  they 
had  no  ears. 

At  midday  the  boy  went  home  to  report  himself  to  Mar- 
got,  who  still  kept  an  anxious  eye  upon  him;  and  having 
packed  the  instruments,  and  promised  her  to  be  back  in  good 
time  before  his  train,  he  passed  to  the  other  extreme  of 
society  with  infinite  relief,  and  tracked  down  Jacques  Char- 
retteur  to  his  distant  lair  in  the  wilds  of  Montmartre.  It 
took  some  pains  to  do  this,  for  Jacques  had  obliterated  him- 
self most  completely,  but  Antoine  had  his  address,  and  was 
not  to  be  baffled  by  the  toils  of  ancient  crooked  streets.  He 
traversed  unawares  some  quarters  of  noted  ill-fame,  grip- 
ping the  score  of  Duchatel  up  to  his  side,  and  touching  at 
intervals  with  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  a  pocket  which 
crackled  faintly.  The  face  he  lifted  to  the  passers-by  was 
serious  and  innocent  extremely,  for  he  was  reflecting  on 
deep  subjects.  He  was  addressed  chafiingly  once  or  twice, 
but  not  molested;  and  he  eventually  found  Jacques,  in 
truly  wretched  quarters  at  the  top  of  an  ancient  house,  but 
lord  of  himself  and  his  life  once  more,  master  of  a  par- 
ticularly fine  outlook  over  Paris— and  evidently  not  dis- 
pleased to  see  Antoine. 

Antoine  was  equally  elated  to  discover  him.  M.  Charret- 
teur  had  been  practising,  in  an  undress  which  he  no  doubt 
considered   appropriate   to    the   performance;   but   at   the 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       305 

moment  when  his  visitor  entered  he  was  eating,  seated  on 
the  table,  which  was  his  most  solid  .piece  of  furniture,  one 
hand  in  his  pocket.  He  motioned  Antoine  to  the  solitary 
chair  with  a  nod,  but  the  boy  leapt  upon  the  table  at  his 
side.  Whereupon  Jacques  seized  him  by  the  shoulders,  and 
planted  him  back  in  the  chair  by  easy  force. 

"  Know  what's  due  to  a  guest,"  said  he.  His  behaviour, 
though  rough,  was  so  natural  that  Antoine  was  at  ease 
too,  and  chattered  to  him  freely  of  his  adventures  by  the 
way.  Charretteur  continued,  while-  he  talked,  to  devour 
his  bread,  tearing  it  up  Vv'ith  splendid  teeth  and  without  em- 
barrassment, while  he  gave  ear  sardonically,  and  cast  the  boy 
one  of  his  sliding  glances  from  time  to  time.  He  looked 
more  than  ever  like  a  lean  wolf  since  his  illness,  hollow- 
eyed  and  lank,  and  uglier  than  before ;  only  it  was  an  ugli- 
ness that  pleased  Antoine,  and  his  manners  were,  if  any- 
thing, improved  by  the  change  of  fortune.  He  was  more 
easy,  at  least,  here  in  his  own  quarters,  than  he  had  been  in 
Mrs  Adler's  glorious  apartments.  Presently,  passing  to 
a  corner  to  get  a  drink  of  water,  he  touched  the  boy's  cheek. 

"Dirty?"  Antoine  queried. 

"  No.     You  look  as  clean — and  as  white — as  usual." 

"  I  am  pretty  clean." 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Charretteur.  "  I've  been  up  all  night  : 
out,  most  of  the  time  since  I  saw  you." 

"Oh— but  why?" 

"  Cursing  myself  for  a  fool.    It's  no  matter — I  often  do." 

"Why  are  you  a  fool?"  said  Antoine,  catching  him. 
"  You  are  not.  Listen,  it  is  all  right."  He  hesitated  there. 
Jacques'  pride  was  of  a  more  fundamental  kind  than  Vic- 
tor's, and  his  situation  called  for  respect.  That  his  diffi- 
culties were  real  and  grim,  no  whit  imaginary,  the  boy  facing 
him  knew  by  instinct.  But  he  had  gained,  whether  by 
Savigny's  stringent  regime  or  more  private  penances,  a 
power  of  silence  since  his  imprisonment,  and  had  lost  in  the 
same  process  some  degree  of  his  personal  attraction.  Oddly 
enough,  he  looked  younger,  not  older,  for  the  change.     He 


3o6  SUCCESSION 

was  still  young,  some  dozen  years  younger  than  the  charm- 
ing Duchatel;  but  the  marks  of  fatigue  and  strain,  not 
these  of  ennui  and  self-torment,  were  engraved  about  eyes 
and  brow  and  mouth. 

"  If  it  was  all  wrong,"  he  said,  flicking  over  the  music 
of  the  sonata  he  had  picked  up,  "  it  would  not  spoil  my 
sleep.  Unless  I  choose  not,  as  last  night,  I  can  always  sleep 
like  a  dead  dog — so  there.  Who  has  been  scribbling  on  this 
copy,  eh?"  He  had  closed  the  score,  and  found  his  own 
name  traced  in  Duchatel's  studied  scrawl. 

"  I  told  him  to,"  said  Antoine.    "  He  has  lots  down  there." 

"  He  puts  on  the  price."  Charretteur  lifted  it  close  to  his 
near-sighted  eyes.  "  You've  saved  me  eight-fifty,  if  I  read 
the  figures  right.    I  say — is  this  the  corrected  edition?" 

"How  corrected?"  said  Antoine,  with  dignity.  "It  is 
very  hard.  I  can  play  it.  I  would  show  you  with  that  vio- 
lin, if  I  had  time." 

"  Pish !  "  said  Jacques.  "  I  saw  through  your  little  games 
last  night.  Here,  let's  try."  Having  glanced  the  music 
through,  he  balanced  the  open  book  on  his  legs,  against 
his  own  long  foot,  which  rested  on  the  chair ;  and,  with  this 
improvised  music-desk,  began  to  play — superbly.  The  boy 
watched  and  criticised  from  time  to  time,  getting  a  cuff 
or  two  in  the  process.  But  he  was  generally  silent,  and  a 
little  absent,  a  manner  which  was  in  itself  a  tribute  to  the 
performance.  He  was  watching  the  man  rather  than  the 
music,  a  fact  of  which  Jacques  was  quite  aware.  As  before, 
Jacques  took  the  gosse's  admiration  for  granted,  and  in- 
tended to  provoke  it  further  by  playing.  He  was  "  show- 
ing off  "  quite  deliberately,  as  Philip  might  have  done. 

"  Beautiful,  hey  ?  "  he  said  once.  "  What  are  you  making 
great  eyes  at  ?  " 

"  Stop  playing,"  said  the  spectator,  catching  the  bow's 
tip,  "  and  talk  to  me." 

"  Sha'n't,"  said  Jacques,  twitching  it  away.  "  Isn't  it 
good  enough  ?  " 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       307 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine.  "  You  are  strong.  Moricz  would 
have  liked  your  hands." 

"  I  might  have  cut  and  gone  to  him  in  May,"  said  Jacques, 
"  if  I  could  have  borrowed  the  money.  But  my  credit 
wouldn't  have  stood  it,  even  then." 

"  You  could  have  asked  me,"  said  Antoine. 

"  You've  got  no  money,"  said  Jacques.  "  Infants  under 
age " 

"  Pardon."  Antoine  produced  a  roll  of  notes,  which  he 
tidied  cahnly  out  flat  with  his  supple  fingers.  Charretteur's 
mouth  opened.    His  eyes  seemed  to  flash. 

'*  Are  those  genuine  ?    Give  them  here." 

The  boy  laid  them  in  his  hand.  After  staring  at  them 
greedily,  and  turning  them  over  one  by  one,  the  violinist 
passed  them  back,  and  took  up  the  violin  again.  "  I've  been 
pretty  near  to  crime  before  now,"  he  said,  in  his  harsh  tone. 
"  I'm  short  of  money  as  I  told  you  in  that  note.  It  was 
badly  done  to  bring  them  here." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Antoine  sharply.    "  They  are  my  own." 

''  They  can't  be — ^you're  a  minor,"  growled  Charretteur, 
but  his  brow  cleared.  "  They've  no  right  to  trust  you  with 
money  anyhow,"  he  argued,  "  carrying  it  in  an  outside 
pocket  through  this  quarter  of  the  town.    I  shall  s-steal  it." 

He  stammered  for  the  first  time,  for  his  speech — it  was 
one  of  Savigny's  first  cares — had  gained  marvellously  in 
crispness  and  decision.  It  was  of  a  piece  somehow  with 
his  altered  looks.  He  continued  to  play  for  some  minutes, 
refusing  to  hear  explanation  or  argument,  regarding  nothing 
but  the  music,  and  tossing  off,  like  a  big  surly  dog,  Antoine's 
vigorous  attempts  to  seize  the  bow ;  but  throughout  the 
struggle  a  singular  light,  as  of  distant  amusement,  was 
dawning  on  his  face. 

"  You  are  making  mistakes,"  said  Antoine,  with  sudden 
and  extreme  bitterness.  "  That  passage  is  not  the  least  like 
that.  Jacques,  voyons — stop!  Yes,  because  I  want  to  see 
your  eyes." 


3o8  SUCCESSION 

He  saw  them ;  and  three  minutes  later  the  thing  was  ar- 
ranged between  the  pair. 

"How  much  is  it?"  said  Jacques,  looking  through  the 
notes  rather  sheepishly,  but  with  evident  delight.  His  dark 
cheek  was  warmed  by  a  glow,  as  was  the  boy's  pale  one; 
but  in  both  cases  it  was  the  glow  of  effort  passed,  and 
neither  was  shy  in  the  subsequent  negotiations. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu,"  said  Antoine,  flinging  himself  back. 
"  I  am  glad  you  are  not  Victor !  I  forget  how  many  there 
are.  It  is  a  great  deal,  because  Reuss  is  very  rich.  He 
gave  it  me  for  my  concert,  la-bas.  I  am  glad  I  took  it, 
now." 

He  looked  at  the  notes  and  Jacques  with  satisfaction. 
It  had  been  a  real  effort  to  think  so  far  ahead  as  to  imagine 
a  need  for  them,  but  it  had  clearly  been  an  excellent  idea. 

"  It's  people  like  you,"  said  Charretteur  severely,  "  who 
spoil  the  c-criminal  classes.  You  have  no  sense  of  prop- 
erty— so  what  do  you  expect  of  us  ?  " 

"Are  you  an  Apache?"  asked  Antoine,  still  considering 
his  appearance.  Jacques  certainly  looked  the  part,  as  he 
sat  there  hunched  on  his  table,  counting  his  stolen  goods. 

"  I  sh-shall  be  now,"  he  replied.  "  What's  the  matter, 
baby  ?  "    The  boy  had  leant  his  head  on  his  hands. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  frightened  a  little,"  he  admitted,  with 
a  shaken  laugh. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  you  were  stronger,"  muttered  Char- 
retteur. "  You  needn't  be  frightened,"  he  added,  after  wait- 
ing a  minute.  "  When  I've  money  enough  to  see  my  way, 
I  can  be  as  pleasant  as  other  people.  It's  doubt  that  is  the 
deuce — and  planning.  I'm  not  born  for  it.  I  don't  want  to 
think.    I  c-can't  drink  and  forget  it  either,  like  I  used." 

"  You  have  tried  ?  "  said  the  boy,  dropping  his  hands.  He 
had  known  he  would  have  to  hear  of  Savigny. 

"  I've  tried,  to  get  that  doctor  fellow's  eyes  off  me.  I 
c-can't.do  it :  it's  no  use.  I  say — did  he  use  the  same  cursed 
tricks  on  you  ?  " 

"  I  expect  it  was  the  same.    I  remember  pretty  well." 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       309 

"  I  can't  even  remember,"  cried  Jacques.  "  On  my  hon- 
our, I  thought  I  had  a  will;  but  he  took  my  senses  away. 
Not  once,  cither,  but  a  dozen  times — p-playing  with  me!" 

"  I  know  he  does,"  said  Antoinc.  "  But  it  will  be  all  right, 
now  you  are  well." 

"  All  very  well  for  you,"  said  Jacques.  "  You  went  under 
it  easy — good  little  gosse.  What  he  bothered  with  you  for, 
I  can't  imagine."  He  considered  the  boy  a  moment.  "  But 
I  stuck  out — dared  him  to  come  near — and  still  he  did  the 
job,  in  spite  of  me.  What's  the  result?  I  tell  you  it  turns 
me  sick  if  I  try  to  drink  with  a  friend!  And  that's  what 
he  calls  the  treatment  for  a  man,"  cried  Jacques,  his  brow 
black  with  baffled  pride,  as  he  paced  about  his  empty  room, 
for  he  could  not  remain  seated. 

"  The  violin,"  murmured  Antoine,  "  You  will  break  it." 
His  bright  eyes  were  regarding  Jacques  with  curious  under- 
standing.   He  knew  the  effect  of  Savigny  so  well. 

"  I  may  as  well  break  it,"  said  Charretteur.  "  He's  done 
me  out  of  that,  and  everything — and  I  n-never  told  him  so. 
I  called  him  names  in  his  absence,  and  that  mild  mission- 
ary Bronne  sent  me  head-over-heels  for  my  pains.  So  after 
that  I  got  a  window  open — and  here  I  am." 

His  excitement  cooled  after  a  time,  and  he  subsided  again 
on  the  table,  and  talked  more  soberly,  though  still  bitterly 
enough,  of  the  life  he  had  made,  or  thought  to  make.  It 
was,  as  he  said,  a  recommencer — he  was  again  half-way 
down  the  toilsome  ladder  of  a  poor  artist's  life.  He  did 
not  boast,  though  he  might  well  have  done  so,  talking  to 
a  boy ;  nor  did  he  hint  once  at  any  rivalry — his  pride  was 
far  too  real  for  that.  He  simply  illustrated  his  fate,  the  fate 
that  had  hammered  and  tantalised  him  by  turns,  talking 
in  irregular  outbursts,  and  using  the  most  careless  style.  No 
effect  that  he  produced  was  studied  at  all,  but  on  Antoine 
it  made  the  deeper  impression.  The  boy  got  up  after  a 
period,  and  sat  by  him  on  the  table ;  and  Jacques'  confidence 
became  quieter  and  more  rational  when  he  did  so,  instantly. 

"  Here's  a  bit  of  news  for  you,"  he  said.     "  Where  do 


310  SUCCESSION 

you  suppose  I  pass  my  evenings,  when  I  haven't  a  kid's 
recital  to  amuse  me  ?  " 

The  boy  had  no  idea. 

"  Did  you  see  a  cafe  at  the  second  corner,  coming  from 
the  square?  Smart  place  vi^ith  posters,  opposite  a  theatre? 
There's  a  concert  there  every  night  from  seven  to  twelve,  a 
rotten  bad  quartet.  A  fellow  leads  it — name  Gerard — a 
friend  of  mine." 

Charretteur  paused.  He  was  not  looking  towards  his 
visitor,  but  out  of  the  window,  where  the  daylight  was  get- 
ting dim. 

"  Wonderful,  out  there,  isn't  it?"  he  observed.  "  This  is 
a  wonderful  town." 

"  You  used  to  live  here,  didn't  you  ?  "  said  Antoine.  "  Did 
you  know  Gerard  then  ?  " 

"  No.  I've  only  known  him  lately,  poor  devil ;  since 
September." 

"  Jacques  !  "    The  boy  caught  his  arm. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Jacques.  "  He  was  invented  then.  Sharp 
little  kid  you  are,  to  see  so  quick.  Gerard's  my  second 
name:  as  much  mine  as  the  other." 

"  You  lead  a  cafe  quartet  ?  " 

"  I  do — as  badly  as  I  can.  .  .  .  Cheek,"  said  Char- 
retteur, "  of  course ;  but  cheek's  the  only  safety.  I  learnt 
that  long  since,  one  of  my  first  lessons.  I'm  as  far  from 
Auteuil  here  as  from  Toulouse,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"  But,"  the  boy  interposed,  "  is  not  as  badly  as  you  can, 
too  good  ?  " 

"  It  is."  Jacques  gave  him  a  cat-like  smile.  "  I'm  mak- 
ing a  name  in  the  quarter,  unluckily.  When  it's  made, 
Gerard  will  have  to  vanish.  One  can  make  a  dinner  under 
other  names.  It  would  hardly  do,  would  it,  if  the  Ber- 
trands  heard?"  Having  waited  a  little,  for  comment  ap- i 
parently,  he  said  crossly :  "  Out  with  it,  Antoine.  Where's  ' 
your  tongue  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  rather  fun,"  said  Antoine,  in  a  hurry. 

"  Fun,"  agreed  Jacques.     "  That's  the  idea.     Jolly  little 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       311 

place  it  is.  I  stood  a  cursing  to-day  from  the  manager, 
and  that  was  fun  as  well.  I  could  have  knocked  him  down 
with  pleasure.  I  cut  him,  do  you  see,  last  night,  and  I 
was  missed.     Touching,  isn't  it,  when  you  think  ?  " 

"  For  my  concert?  "  the  boy  gasped,  catching  a  clenched 
hand  to  his  side. 

Jacques  nodded  grimly.  "  And  then  walked  the  streets 
all  night,  cursing  my  rashness.  I  thought  I  had  lost  my 
two-franc  pieces  for  good." 

"  Forty  sous  a  night  ?  "  The  expressive  hand  clutched 
tighter. 

"  Fourpence  an  hour,"  said  Jacques,  "  if  you  reckon  it 
out.  Oh,  that's  good  business  as  times  go.  Sure,  you  see, 
except  on  Thursday.  That's  my  night  off.  Lucky,  as  I 
have  a  fortnightly  engagement  to  the  Salle  Doree — my 
other  trio." 

"With  Manuel  Ribiera,  hein?" 

"  With  Ribiera,  who  is  a  queen's  favourite,  and  a  Euro- 
pean celebrity,  and  a  millionaire."  He  swung  forward. 
"  On  my  honour,  Antoine,  this  fellow  pays  me  better  than 
that  dirty  Jew.  On  my  honour,  I  was  forced  to  it.  It's 
been  worse,  these  last  months,  than  you  think." 

"  You  have  done  well,"  said  Antoine  sharply,  twitching 
away  the  wrist  at  which  he  grasped.  "  Perhaps  these  people 
listen  more  than  some  queens  Ribiera  plays  to.  It  is  only 
— if  you  had  told  me !  "  He  swallowed  something,  and  his 
dark  eyes  turned  to  Jacques,  a  world  of  tragedy  in  them. 
"  Did  you  think  I  should  mind?  "  he  said. 

''  I  knew  you  would,  and  do.  In  any  case  your  people 
would  mind  for  you.  You've  no  right  to  be  here — it's  no 
place  for  you." 

"  Blague,"  returned  the  boy.  "  Besides  grandpapa  would 
not  think  it  bad.  I  expect — long  ago — grandpapa  has 
played  in  places  like  that." 

Charretteur  laughed,  a  boy's  laugh,  loud  and  natural. 
"  Took  a  bit  of  effort,  baby,  to  imagine  that.  Shows  you 
haven't  seen  it.  Get  on — search  away.  It's  so  odd  to  be 
defended." 


312  SUCCESSION 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything,  if  you  talk  like  that.  Jacques ! 
— ^you  have  minded  yourself  ?  " 

"  It's  a  joke,"  said  Charretteur.  A  pause.  "  1  turned  my 
back  on  them  the  first  night ;  but  even  so,  it  nearly  drove 
me  mad.  They  talked,  you  know,  and  one  couldn't  curse 
them.  It  was  hell,  a  new  sort  I  hadn't  tried."  He  paused 
again.  "  The  fellows  are  decent  enough,  I'll  say  that.  I 
pass  over  the  stuff  we  play.  Generally,  I  try  not  to  hear 
the  noise  we  make.  Now  and  then,  though,  I  get  a  devil's 
fit  on  me,  and  play  to  make  them  stare.  I  overdid  it,  one 
night.  Saw  a  fellow  talking  to  a  girl,  and  couldn't  stand 
their  silly  grinning — I  vowed  I'd  make  them  drop  it — and 
before  the  end,  you  should  have  seen  their  fishes'  eyes." 

"  I  wish  I  had  heard,"  said  Antoine. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it.  I'm  in  better  form  than  I've  ever 
been,  and  none  the  wiser  but  myself.  If  anyone  had  told 
me,  I'd  have  said  the  thing  couldn't  happen.  It's  a  very  odd 
world,"  said  Jacques.  He  arose,  kicked  the  chair  aside,  and 
went  to  the  window.  "  That's  all  the  story,"  he  said.  "  It's 
nothing  out  of  the  way — only  going  back  a  bit  in  life.  It's 
a  good  joke,  properly  regarded." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  am  amused.  But  I  shall  not 
tell  this  joke  to  anybody,  all  the  same." 

"  Right  as  usual,"  said  Jacques.  "  There  are  some  jokes 
only  a  few  can  share — two  by  choice.  It  makes  a  difference 
when  you're  two.  There's  a  fellow  I  used  to  know,  down 
at  Amiens."  He  considered,  gazing  out  at  the  ranks  of 
houses,  purpling  in  the  November  haze.  Friendship  even 
had  failed  him,  in  the  pretty  world  he  watched.  As  to  the 
common  acquaintance,  it  was  as  M.  Lemaure  had  said — 
they  would  not  stick  to  a  man  who  refused  a  friendly  glass. 
Everyone  had  dropped  away. 

"  It  is  late,"  Antoine  said,  as  though  the  dusk  reminded 
him.    "  I  must  go." 

"Why?"  said  his  host,  turning  a  somewhat  black  look 
and  gripping  him  closely.    "  I  can  talk  to  you :    kids  don 


i! 


JACQUES    IN    DIFFICULTIES       313 

count.  I'll  amuse  you  some  more  too,  if  you  wait.  Ribiera, 
as  a  farceur,  beats  all." 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  said  Antoine,  frowning  at  the  grasp 
on  him.    "  I  can't  stay.    I  go  to  England  to-night." 

Jacques  stood  silent.  "  When  do  you  come  back  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Dieu  sait — for  Christmas,  I  think."  Antoine  said  noth- 
ing of  the  engagements,  but  they  were  understood. 

"  L-leave  me  the  violin,"  said  Jacques. 

"  I  can't.    I  am  to  play  it.    Jacques — don't  be  silly." 

Jacques  was  not  being  silly :  he  was  merely  gazing  from 
the  high  windows  down  upon  the  stony  street. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  better,"  argued  Antoine  subtly.  "  I 
remember  feeling  like  it,  in  Savoie.  You  will  soon  like 
playing  again." 

"  I  like  playing  already,"  laughed  Jacques,  "  That's  not 
the  trouble,  mon  gosse." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  boy,  his  brows  lifted  and  fixed. 
"  Bah — no,  it  is  stupid,"  he  decided.  "  Go  for  me  to  Eng- 
land, hein?  You  would  do  it  all  so  well."  He  recited  a 
programme  or  two,  and  Jacques  nodded  at  the  items,  and 
both  laughed. 

"What  time  do  you  start?"  said  Charretteur,  after  a 
certain  pause. 

"  From  the  Nord."  He  gave  the  hour  of  his  train. 
"  Oh,  come !  "  he  cried.  "  Since  it  is  Thursday,  and  not 
Ribiera,  you  can." 

Jacques  considered  the  thing  at  leisure.  "  I've  a  mind 
to  run  down  to  Amiens,"  he  said,  feeling  the  pocket  with 
the  money  unconsciously.  "  The  fellow  I  mentioned  is 
there,  and  it  would  be  a  change." 

He  looked  sidelong  at  the  boy,  whose  face  glowed.  The 
innocent  gratification  his  society  afforded  amused  Jacques 
anew  every  time  to  witness. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  added,  as  they  were  separating.  "  How 
do  you  propose  to  get  to  England  ?  " 

"  How  ?  "  said  the  boy,  surprised. 


314  SUCCESSION 

"  You've  got  no  money." 

There  ensued  an  interval.  Antoine  explored  all  his 
pockets  carefully.  He  produced  all  kinds  of  things,  includ- 
ing Jacques'  own  pencil,  which  he  had  borrowed  to  mark 
the  music,  a  fifty-centime  piece,  and  a  half-a-handful  of 
sous.  He  extended  these  with  a  pathetic  face,  then  flung 
them  up,  caught  them  in  a  dexterous  snatch,  and  went  off 
into  a  fit  of  giggling  at  himself. 

"  You  will  lend  me  some,"  he  said,  when  he  had  the 
breath.    "  Since  you  are  coming  to  the  station,  hein  ?  " 

"  Happily  for  you,"  said  Jacques.  "  They  really  oughtn't 
to  let  you  go  about  the  town  alone.  I'll  lend  you  enough  for 
the  journey ;  only  look  here — I  shall  require  a  note  of  hand." 


CHAPTER  XII 

TRAGEDY    BEGINS 

The  parting  that  night  to  Antoine  was  dreadful,  for  no 
cause  he  could  have  explained.  All  experience  seemed  full 
of  partings  now,  all  life  turned  treacherous,  untrustworthy. 
He  had  been  back  and  forth  from  London  to  Paris  a  score 
of  times,  but  the  breach  made  by  his  going  had  never  seemed 
like  this. 

The  old  man  might  or  might  not  have  shared  his  feel- 
ings, but  in  the  words  he  treated  it  lightly.  "  It  is  like 
old  times  when  you  went  to  school,"  he  said.  "  You  go  to 
our  school  in  turn,  eh?    The  upper  classes." 

The  boy  did  not  offer  him  mutinous  phrases  in  response, 
as  he  had  often  done,  both  in  the  new  school  and  the  old. 
Nor  did  he  jest  at  all,  for  no  friendly  excitement  had  come 
to  aid  him,  and  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  force  jesting, 
or  to  talk  brightly  for  conscience's  sake.  Antoine  talked 
brightly  when  he  was  happy,  and  jested  when  he  was 
amused,  but  to-night  he  was  neither  thing.  He  took  leave 
with  gravity,  his  wide  eyes  full  of  absent  foreboding.  As 
the  courier  of  the  family  he  received  instructions  and  mes- 
sages ;  as  its  representative  he  suffered  with  forbearance  a 
few  rather  nervous  warnings.  Only  once  he  smiled,  when 
his  grandfather  charged  him  with  being  sleepy. 

"  Imagine  papa,"  he  remarked,  ''  if  I  was  asleep  through 
Amiens." 

"  Do  not  neglect  the  new  possession,"  M.  Lemaure  pro- 
ceeded. "  Since  I  have  heard  it  speak,  I  feel  more  anxious. 
And  I  suspect  you,  the  owner,  of  prejudice  in  the  matter." 
315 


3i6  SUCCESSION 

"  I  like  it  very  well,"  said  Antoine.  "  Perhaps  I  shall 
play  it  for  them  once  or  twice — we  shall  see."  He  gath- 
ered his  own  treasure  to  his  side,  toying  with  a  strap  or  two 
to  see  that  all  was  safe.  Then  he  exchanged  a  few  remarks 
with  Philip,  who  had  come  to  take  charge  of  the  post  he 
abandoned,  embraced  his  grandfather  with  attention  and 
the  cook  with  violence,  looked  once  all  round  the  little  study, 
and  departed  in  solitary  state. 

"  I  suppose,"  Philip  observed,  on  his  disappearance,  "  he 
has  two  or  three  thousand  pounds'  worth  in  those  two  cases, 
hasn't  he?  " 

"  Apropos,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  awakening  from  a  reverie, 
"  I  wonder  if  the  child  has  any  money.  I  had  not  thought 
of  it." 

"  You  are  just  like  him,"  said  Philip.  "  He  had  exactly 
ninepence-half penny  until  ten  minutes  ago.  I  lent  him  a 
couple  of  fifties  which  will  see  him  through.  If  he  loses 
them  he  will  borrow  from  a  porter  at  the  Nord — and  papa 
will  snap  his  head  off,  very  properly,  when  he  hears." 

Mr  Edgell  junior  proceeded  to  inaugurate  his  dictator- 
ship by  making  a  few  propositions,  which  included  taking 
charge  of  M.  Lemaure's  purse,  bank-book,  and  general  lia- 
bilities ;  and  his  grandfather,  who  had  never  permitted  his 
own  son  to  touch  them,  acceded  to  all  very  tamely.  The 
slight  anxiety  that  had  haunted  him  grew  dim  at  Antoine's 
departure;  he  was  tired  with  the  stir  and  movement  that, 
do  what  he  would,  the  boy's  recent  popularity  had  brought 
to  the  house ;  and  he  was  delighted — it  was  consolation  for 
all  the  frets  of  age — to  have  the  spoiled  Philip  at  his  side 
again. 

Antoine  did  seem  sleepy  going  down  to  Amiens,  and 
Jacques,  once  they  were  in  the  train,  did  not  disturb  him 
much.  There  were  two  other  travellers  in  the  carriage, 
which  in  any  case  destroyed  the  chance  of  confidences.  It 
may  also  be  that  Jacques,  realising  more  clearly  the  con- 
trast between  them  as  the  boy  sat  opposite  under  the  lights, 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  317 

blinking  with  natural  drowsiness  at  nine  o'clock,  had  an 
attack  of  pride,  and  forbore  deliberately  to  air  his  fur- 
ther grievances.  Antoine  was  within  the  pale  of  the  pro- 
fession, truly;  but  he  had,  to  Jacques'  knowledge,  escaped 
by  some  miracle  of  fate  its  bitterer  and  more  commercial 
side.  He  had  shot  like  a  well-flung  rocket  through  that 
murkiness  of  the  market,  so  familiar  to  Charretteur's  whole 
childhood,  and  now  took  his  ease  in  the  clearer  air  above. 
Luck,  the  wilful  little  god,  had  smiled  on  him  as  luck 
smiles  on  those  who  are  young,  indifferent  and  in  easy 
circumstances.  Jacques  observed  him  at  intervals,  not 
jealously,  but  with  a  kind  of  curiosity,  as  though  watching 
for  the  secret  he  had  missed;  and  afforded  very  little  at- 
tention to  the  woman  in  the  farther  corner,  who  was,  as 
M.  Charretteur  was  equally  aware,  most  willing  to  catch 
his  eye. 

With  this  lady's  squire,  a  sulky  man  in  a  fur  coat,  Jacques 
had  had  a  heated  dispute  as  to  the  bestowal  of  their  re- 
spective properties  in  the  racks,  and  she  had  had  to  inter- 
vene to  make  peace  between  the  pair.  It  was  during  this 
altercation  that  she  had  sought  Jacques'  sympathy  first. 
But  he  overlooked  her,  with  his  finest  young  bandit's  air, 
and  when  the  quarrel  had  grumbled  itself  out,  he  said  a 
word  to  Antoine  and  went  wandering  down  the  train  to 
look  for  a  compartment  where  they  might  be  private. 
However,  as  the  boat  train  happened  to  be  fairly  full,  his 
skulking  expedition  bore  no  fruit,  and  he  returned  and 
sank  into  his  seat  again,  extending  his  gaunt  legs  so  as  to 
take  up  as  much  room  as  possible.  Antoine  had  accepted 
the  olive  branch  in  the  interval,  he  gathered.  Indeed  the 
woman,  who  was  a  degree  more  vulgar  than  the  man, 
called  him  mon  chou  in  Jacques'  hearing,  and  seemed  vastly 
amused  by  his  friendliness. 

As  the  train  ran  into  Amiens,  the  boy  leant  from  the  cor- 
ridor w^indow,  spying  for  his  father's  w^ell-known  form 
among  the  crowd.  Only,  when  he  discovered  Jem,  and 
glanced  round,  Jacques  had  disappeared.    This  was  odd  of 


3i8  SUCCESSION 

him,  for  Antoine  had  proposed  a  presentation,  and  Jacques 
had  seemed  not  unwilling.  The  "  real  father  "  had  even 
seemed  to  be  rather  an  object  of  curiosity  to  his  rambling 
mind;  and  Antoine  was  naturally  sure  that  Jem  would  be 
enchanted  to  meet  Jacques.  A  travelling  companion  of 
such  note — though  it  was  true  Jacques'  distinction  was  a 
little  in  abeyance  from  the  worldly  point  of  view — would 
at  least  merit  his  father's  honourable  attention. 

His  kind  schemes  failed,  however.  Jacques  saw  a  friend 
presumably,  or  else  had  a  shy  fit  and  melted  in  the  crowd ; 
and  as  for  Edgell,  he  seemed  more  interested  in  Antoine 
than  in  any  other  casual  celebrity  who  might  be  travelling 
by  the  train. 

"  Good,"  was  his  brief  greeting,  when  he  picked  the  boy 
out  by  one  sweeping  glance  and  came  up  to  the  window. 
"  Have  you  got  room  there,  and  is  it  a  smoker  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine ;  "  but  they  have  all  gone  out,  I  think. 
There  is  a  lot  of  room." 

"  Donkey,"  said  Jem,  who  was  pipe  in  mouth.  "  Change 
your  traps  to  the  next  that  side.  Smart,  before  it's  taken, 
do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  There  are  so  many  traps,"  objected  Antoine.  "  Grand- 
papa made  me  bring  a  lot  of  things — and  the  violins  are 
very  well  up  there." 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  Edgell,  screwing  his  eyes  into  the  com- 
partment. "  How  many  violins  do  you  carry  round,  this 
little  trip?" 

Antoine,  hanging  on  the  window,  since  he  would  not 
come  in,  gave  his  version  of  the  story,  his  tongue  tripping 
in  English  now  and  again,  as  though  unaccustomed.  His 
father  looked  him  over,  took  observations  of  the  train,  the 
station  clock,  and  the  officials'  proceedings,  and  listened 
more  or  less.  What  comments  he  made  were  off  the  point. 
"  Had  a  cold?  "  he  interrupted  once;  a  little  later  he  uttered 
an  imprecation  on  somebody  unknown  for  delaying  the 
express. 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  319 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  papa  ?  "  said  the  boy  at  last,  grow- 
ing anxious  as  to  his  intentions,  he  seemed  so  leisurely. 

"  Not  finished,"  said  Jem,  puffing  away.  "  Your  fault 
if  I'm  left." 

"  The  guard  will  not  mind  you  to  smoke  here,"  suggested 
Antoine.  "  I  mean — if  you  tell  him."  His  father's  calm 
ways  with  the  railway  world  caused  Antoine  much  the 
same  breathless  entertainment  to  witness,  that  they  had  as 
a  baby  in  Brittany. 

"  Tell  him  what  ?  "  Jem  inquired.  "  I  like  your  airs." 
However,  he  swung  on  board  just  before  the  door  was 
shut,  and  in  time  to  claim  his  seat  from  two  other  late 
passengers  who  were  also  seeking  corners. 

"Way  up  now,  aren't  we?"  he  proceeded,  laying  the 
pipe  aside  at  last,  and  inviting  a  hug.  Reckless  of  audience, 
he  planted  his  rugs  in  Antoine's  seat,  and  took  the  boy 
across  his  long  knees  in  their  place.  "  Might  have  wired  a 
special,  if  we  had  thought  of  it  in  time.  Now  hold  on :  just 
tell  me  how  soon  you  are  on  duty  at  the  other  end." 

This  was  characteristic  of  James.  He  liked  to  see  his 
way  right  to  the  terminus  of  any  given  undertaking,  before 
he  really  enjoyed  the  thing  he  had.  His  present  enterprise 
had  been  planned  in  part  for  the  diversion  he  found  in  dove- 
tailing duty  and  pleasure  together,  so  as  to  get  the  utmost 
out  of  the  time  at  his  disposal, 

"  To-morrow  night,"  the  boy  said,  in  confidence.  "  But 
only  one  concerto  with  Wurst — it  is  not  important."  He 
laughed  slightly  at  Jem's  face.  *'  You  must  go  back  in  the 
afternoon,  papa?  " 

"  At  latest,"  said  Jem,  with  emphasis. 

"  The  Tschedin  is  a  beautiful  thing,"  said  Antoine. 

"Really?" 

"  Yes.    And  that  orchestra  is  good — good  enough." 

"  Good  enough  for  me  ?  "  said  Jem. 

"  Rather  good,"  Antoine  corrected  himself.  "  I  have 
forgotten  some  of  those  words.     It  is  asscz  bien."     He 


320  SUCCESSION 

paused,  frowned,  and  added  rapidly.  "  I  have  perhaps  be- 
come rather  difficuU,  with  orchestras." 

"  Say  that  all  again,"  James  advised  him  kindly. 

"  Don't  you  understand  it  ?  "  said  Antoine.  "  You  see, 
there  has  been  German,  too,  lately  to  mix  me  up.  There 
are  too  many  languages  altogether.  While  we  are  still  in 
France,  we  talk  French,  hein  ?  " 

"  If  we  do,  we  get  our  ears  boxed,"  said  Jem.  His  eye 
was  on  the  audience,  who  were  Parisians  unmistakably. 
Edgell  intended  to  be  as  confidential  "  this  trip  "  as  could 
be  compassed.  He  seldom  in  these  days  saw  Antoine  with- 
out intruders,  but  if  any  intruded,  they  had  better  be 
strange  to  the  language  used.  As  the  train  started  he 
glanced  at  the  watch  he  still  held  in  his  hand,  clipped  it  to, 
and  stowed  it  away  with  a  slight  sound  of  disapproval. 
"  Nearly  midnight,"  he  answered  Antoine's  inquiry.  "  High 
time  kids  were  asleep." 

"There  is  not  enough  time  before  Calais,"  insinuated 
Antoine,  who  preferred  conversation.  "  Why  did  you  think 
to  come,  papa?" 

"  Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  or  night," 
said  Edgell.     "Understand  that  expression?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  boy,  blinking.  "  It  passes  the 
night  very  well,  when  you  are  there." 

James  smiled,  glancing  again  towards  the  audience;  he 
began  to  think  it  a  pity  they  could  not  appreciate  his 
infant,  after  all.  "  Better  be  careful  what  you  say,"  he 
counselled  lower.  "  Your  continental  English  might  be 
understood  beyond." 

"  I  will  talk  it  fast,"  said  Antoine.  They  conversed,  if 
not  fast,  low  and  contentedly,  the  little  gurgle  of  the  boy's 
laughter  audible  from  time  to  time,  though  the  man  was 
entirely  grave.  Whenever  the  sound  occurred  the  lady 
passenger  looked  round  with  half-a-smile,  as  though  the 
sense  of  that  was  conveyed  to  her  at  least.  She  thought 
the  pair  were  touchant,  and  her  lifted  brows  signalled  as 
much  to  her  companion.    She  had  decided  privately  that  the 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  321 

boy  must  have  been  for  a  long  period  at  school  in  France, 
and  had  had  to  be  fetched  home  to  recruit  after  a  serious  ill- 
ness. She  would  have  claimed  Antoine  as  a  compatriot  on 
sight,  had  not  the  bond  between  him  and  the  tall  foreigner 
been  so  evident.  As  it  was,  the  other  theory  would  just 
fit  the  case. 

"How's  your  grandfather?"  said  Jem  presently,  grow- 
ing serious. 

Antoine  told  him,  playing  with  the  window-sash,  his 
eyes  on  the  flying  country  seen  by  flashes  as  the  lights  swept 
past.  He  did  not  speak  copiously  on  the  subject;  yet  Jem 
got  more  clear  information  from  his  lame  little  sentences 
than  from  all  his  elder  son's  well-studied  letters  during  the 
autumn. 

"  Why  did  you  never  come  down  to  see  me  as  I  said  ?  " 
he  pursued,  when  he  had  learnt  what  he  wanted,  and  de- 
termined privately  to  go  to  Paris,  at  the  next  opportunity. 

"  I  couldn't  very  well.  You  see,  I  have  to  read  to  him  at 
five." 

"Not  Sundays." 

The  boy  blushed  slightly.  "  Sundays  seem  like  other 
days,"  he  said,  "  when  one  cannot  go  out." 

"That's  so,"  said  Jem.  He  saw  the  blush  and  inter- 
preted it  right,  as  a  signal  of  past  effort  and  present  appeal. 
Suddenly  he  grasped  him.  "  And  how  have  you  been,  my 
duck?  "  he  said,  in  a  different  tone.  "  None  the  stouter  for 
inflation,  hey  ?  What  did  they  do  to  you  out  there  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  well,"  was  all  he  said ;  but  he  flashed  an 
answer,  electrically  as  it  were,  to  the  current  of  emotion  he 
felt. 

"  And  how  well's  that?    Get  on." 

"  I  mean  " — he  paused — "  I  have  not — always — been 
very  well,  but  I  am  now.    You  understand?  " 

"  Here  and  now  you  are,  which  is  all  that  matters,  eh?  " 
said  Jem.  "  Do  you  eat  properly  ?  "  A  nod.  "  And  talk  too 
much,  and  sleep  too  little?    Same  as  ever?" 


322  SUCCESSION 

"  Yesterday,"  said  Antoine,  "  I  did  not  talk  much,  be- 
cause my  throat  was  curious." 

"  So  your  friends  got  a  chance,  for  once.  What  makes 
you  catch  cold? — you  never  used  to." 

Antoine  shrugged.  "  I  coughed  quietly,"  he  explained, 
"  when  Savigny  was  there ;  and  Monsieur  Bronne  is  so 
agreeable,  he  did  not  mind."  At  this  point,  as  the  train 
shook  violently,  he  swung  himself  half  up,  frowning. 

"  Make  you  giddy  ?  "  his  father  asked. 

"  No.    I  think  of  the  strings  up  there." 

"  Let  them  break,  what's  the  odds  ?  "  said  the  engineer, 
catching  him  back  again.  "  See  here,  where  do  you  prac- 
tise when  you  are  at  home?" 

"  Where  ?  "  Antoine  was  surprised.  "  In  the  mansarde, 
au  sixieme." 

"With  a  fire,  eh?" 

"  Oh  no,  there  is  no  chimney."  A  pause.  "  It  is  a  little 
cold  in  the  morning  for  the  violin,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I 
thought  of  that  once." 

"  Once,"  his  father  echoed  with  expression.  "  Say,  Tony, 
what  was  its  temperature  two  nights  since  ?  " 

"The  violin's?"  The  boy  looked  up,  his  colour  height- 
ened, his  eyes  rather  defiant.  "  I  had  to,  for  the  Duchatel," 
he  contended.  "  I  do  not  want  to  make  those  awful  noises. 
And  then,  at  the  end,  he  did  not  like  it." 

"Your  grandfather  didn't?" 

"  Duchatel.  The  recital  was  rate,  for  him.  Only  if  the 
people  will  not  read  it — one  must  play.     You  see  ?  " 

James  did  not,  the  least;  nor  did  Antoine  really  hope  he 
would.  His  point  of  view  was  generally  as  unexpected, 
in  artistic  matters,  as  it  was  refreshing.  "  I  guess  you're 
undertaking  more  than  you  can  manage,"  he  said.  "  No  " 
— as  the  boy's  mouth  opened — "  you  needn't  answer.  I 
have  no  doubt  you  made  a  good  show  with  it,  whatever  it 
was.  Phil  told  me  as  much.  But  I  left  you  under  con- 
tract to  your  grandfather,   not  this   Duchatel.     He's  the 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  3^3 

only  person  capable  of  advising  you ;  and  if  you  run  against 
his  prejudices,  at  least  at  present,  you're  wrong." 

Antoine  opened  his  mouth  again ;  and  then,  on  considera- 
tion, shut  it.  When  his  father  adopted  a  certain  finality 
of  tone,  it  was  safer  not  to  risk  a  reply,  however  brilliant. 
So  he  reflected  instead,  blinking  and  enjoying  the  sheer 
restfulness  of  Jem's  neighborhood  in  the  general  whirl  of 
things,  the  train  included.  In  this  unusual  state  of  virtu- 
ous inaction,  the  idea  of  sleep  grew  less  incredible.  Pres- 
ently he  yawned,  then  laughed,  and  swung  himself  free  of 
the  compelling  arm.  He  fell  into  his  own  place,  throwing 
the  rug  back  to  his  father,  all  his  actions  prompt,  clean, 
decisive  as  they  had  ever  been.  He  was  never  so  easy  and 
sure,  so  much  himself  as  in  this  company.  Their  minds 
were  doubtless  different,  but  it  was  a  healthy  difference, 
each  bracing  the  other;  and  the  essentials  both  required 
were  the  same. 

"  Keep  it  if  you're  cold,"  Edgell  said  of  the  rug,  for  he 
had  found  him  rather  chilly  to  the  touch. 

"  I  have  one  too,"  Antoine  informed  him,  as  he  gathered 
it  up,  "  but  it  is  round  the  violins." 

"  What's  that  for?  "  his  father  demanded. 

"  This  train  jumps  such  a  lot.  I  do  that  sometimes,  en 
voyage." 

"  What  rot,"  Jem  returned  in  a  familiar  phrase.  Rising, 
he  proceeded  to  reach  up  and  disentangle  the  rug  from  what 
it  was  enveloping.  He  dislodged  a  stick  in  the  process, 
which  fell  and  was  caught  by  the  boy. 

*'  This  is  yours,"  he  said.     "  Phil  told  me  to  bring  it." 

Edgell  did  not  acknowledge  it,  or  turn.  Standing  square 
with  his  back  to  his  son,  he  was  looking  sharply  about  him. 
"  Where's  the  other  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  other  ?  "   said   Antoine.      "  There  was   only " 

His  father,  swinging  suddenly  about,  as  though  catching 
the  tremor  on  the  last  words,  saw  him  gazing  at  the  rack 
above  him,  the  hand  that  had  been  grasping  the  rug  falling 
idle  at  his  side,  the  colour  vanishing  rapidly  from  his  face. 


324  SUCCESSION 

"  II  est  malade,  le  petit,"  said  the  lady  in  the  farther 
corner,  throwing  her  own  wraps  off  at  the  same  moment. 
"  Tenez,  monsieur — ouvrez.  Cela  passera  tout  de  suite." 
She  caught  Antoine  with  one  arm  adroitly,  while  Jem,  swift 
and  silent,  threw  the  window  open. 

"  Near  shave  that,"  he  said,  after  a  minute  or  two,  in 
excellent  French  to  the  woman.  "  It  was  a  fright,  of 
course,  confound  it." 

"  He  has  been  ill  ?  "  she  suggested  low. 

"  He  can't  ever  stand  much,"  said  Jem,  "  and  the  violin's 
his  charge.  All  right,  my  dear.  We'll  get  it  back,  never 
fear.  Which  is  it  they  have  taken?  Tell  me  that  before  I 
see  the  guard." 

The  tone  was  clear,  cordial,  and  he  was  smiling  almost; 
everything  Antoine  could  least  conceive  of  him,  on  such 
damning  evidence  of  his  own  incompetence ;  of  that  care- 
lessness his  father  had  made  mock  of  in  childhood,  and 
condemned  all  his  later  years  as  a  fault  his  wit  should  be 
able  to  correct.  Amid  all  the  mass  of  censure  the  loss  of 
the  instrument  must  entail,  that  condemnation,  he  thought, 
would  be  the  surest. 

As  for  Edgell,  during  that  pause  while  he  saw  the  life 
sink  out  of  his  son's  face  and  struggle  back,  bringing  with  it 
the  painful  necessity  of  thought,  he  realised  in  full  the 
thing  of  which  his  father-in-law  and  Philip  had  been  dimly 
conscious ;  the  extraordinary  and  criminal  responsibility 
which,  for  sheer  want  of  attention,  they  had  laid  on  this 
young  boy,  confiding  and  absent  by  nature,  perplexed  at 
home  by  a  constant  clash  of  duties,  burdened  abroad  by 
the  credit  of  his  family  and  the  honour  of  his  art,  and  not 
even  recovered,  as  was  clear  enough  now,  from  an  illness 
which  two  months  since  had  taken  him  within  arm's  length 
of  death. 

Angry  with  immediate  anxiety  as  he  was,  Jem  took  the 
first  blame  to  himself.  He  had  simply  scamped,  his  duty, 
it  was  perfectly  plain  to  his  mind,  in  not  taking  him 
Straight  from  his  grandfather's  hands,  guiding  and  guard-  j 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  325 

ing  him  as  a  thing  of  such  proved  importance  had  the  right 
to  be  guarded,  even  if  he  had  not  had  objects  of  greater 
material  vakie  in  charge.  Most  clearly  of  all  the  injus- 
tice smote  him.  Had  the  boy  failed  his  side  of  the  bar- 
gain at  one  point,  since  he  came  before  the  public,  that  his 
family  should  fail  in  theirs  so  signally?  He  had  done  all 
and  more  than  their  highest  ambition  claimed,  and  at  an 
expense  they  had  been  allowed  little  opportunity  to  doubt. 
They  had  done  nothing  for  him  but  look  on,  applaud  a 
trifle,  tease  a  trifle  more  as  the  occasion  arose,  and  expect 
ever  more  of  him  simply  because  he  did  not  disappoint 
them.  It  was  not  fair  play,  regarded  by  the  commonest 
standards  of  Jem's  tradition.  And  only  Jem  knew  how 
much  more,  in  the  unfailing  simplicity  of  his  affection,  this 
boy  claimed  of  him  than  that. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Antoine  to  the  strange  gentleman 
who   offered   his   flask.      "  I    do   not   want   brandy.      It   is 

only "    He  turned  to  his  father  and  steadied  his  shaken 

tone.  "  It  is  my  own  that  has  gone.  They  could  not  know 
which  was  the  best,  of  course.  I  believe  the  other  is  bet- 
ter— more  expensive.     I  wish  they  had  taken  that." 

It  was  all  he  said,  and  he  remained  resting  his  brow  upon 
his  clenched  hand,  until  the  guard  came  down  the  train. 
That  he  was  fighting  his  weakness,  and  summoning  all  his 
wits  to  his  aid,  was  clear,  and  till  authority  arrived  upon 
the  scene,  nobody  disturbed  him ;  and  even  then  there  were 
certain  preliminaries  he  had  to  leave  in  his  father's  hands. 

Jem  Edgell  was  an  unexpansive  man,  but  he  was  not  one 
to  allow  his  personal  claims  to  be  neglected ;  and  he  made 
jin  that  night  express,  hurrying  its  sleeping  passengers  to 
I  the  coast,  a  most  consummate  stir.  The  French  couple  in 
:his  compartment  began  to  marvel  whether  the  big  grizzled 
man  was  British  royalty  in  disguise,  and  how  many  of  the 
Crown  jewels  had  disappeared  owing  to  the  criminal  ovcr- 
;sight  of  the  company  of  the  Nord.  The  guard,  a  person 
of  almost  military  splendour  and  severity,  came  to  sit  in 
their  carriage  for  the  rest  of  the  journey,  informing  him- 


326  SUCCESSION 

self,  reassuring  messieurs,  and  taking  notes.  He  glanced 
at  Edgell's  papers,  and  nodded  at  Antoine's  name,  with  a 
polite  appearance  of  having  heard  of  them  both  for  years. 

"  Monsieur  knows  his  violin,  perhaps,"  he  suggested 
paternally. 

"  If  I  know  it !  "  the  boy  jerked,  with  a  short,  pained 
laugh.  He  gave  forthwith  its  title,  parentage  and  origin, 
hinted  its  history,  and  described  it  with  loving  care  in 
every  part.  As  he  proceeded,  the  passive  fingers  in  Jem's 
gripped  closer,  for  recovering  from  his  private  shock,  he 
remembered  what  his  father  must  be  feeling  too,  in  the  loss 
of  this  old  member  of  the  family,  sanctified  before  his  own 
birth  by  his  mother's  hands.  When  required  to  give  its 
value  he  hesitated,  and  then  offered  M.  Lemaure's  expert 
surmise.  They  all  knew  by  this  time  that  the  instrument 
had  been  purchased  far  below  its  worth,  for  all  the  modest 
signature  it  bore.  It  was  one  of  the  little  adventurers  in 
the  realm  of  great  violins — a  happy  find,  bought  on  a  lucky 
day,  proving  itself  subsequently  and  secretly  to  its  hosts  as 
a  visitor  of  the  noblest  blood.  Stories  innumerable  were 
grouped  about  it,  and  members  of  the  Lemaure  family  in- 
quired at  intervals  after  its  health,  in  jest  at  first,  but  with 
growing  respect  as  its  name  and  Antoine's  grew  together. 
Even  M.  Lemaure's  Stradivarius,  up  to  then  the  pride  of 
their  circle,  had  had  to  adopt  since  its  advent  the  position 
of  a  distinguished  bore. 

Both  Antoine  and  his  father  were  skimming  In  mind  this 
history,  as  they  sat  facing  the  official  side  by  side,  though 
only  the  more  useful  facts  were  presented  to  him.  Jem 
left  the  descriptive  departm.ent  entirely  to  his  son,  but 
joined  keenly  in  the  subsequent  discussion  as  to  the  con- 
ditions of  the  instrument's  disappearance  and  the  probable 
culprit.  His  suggestions  and  method  of  question  were  so 
far  superior  to  those  of  the  guard  that  that  personage, 
decidedly  impressed,  was  ready  to  retire  in  his  favour.  He 
had  already  gathered  that  the  younger  gentleman  was  not 
to  be  overtaxed ;  a  parent,  in  such  cases,  is  the  best,  he 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  327 

reflected,  as  he  watched  their  quick  exchange,  and  tapped 
gently  with  his  pencil  on  the  open  book ;  granted  two  such 
intelhgent  people,  and  the  time  at  his  disposal,  he  could  not 
fail  to  gather  all  the  facts  he  wanted. 

"  A  couple  of  men  in  the  carriage,  eh?  "  said  Jem. 

"  It  was  a  man  and  a  woman,"  said  Antoine, 

"  Did  they  know  the  instruments  were  there?  " 

"  He  did,  because  he  pushed  our  things  about,  when 
he  put  up  his  bag.  The  man  with  me  was  rather  angry, 
because  we  had  arranged  them  already  before  he  came." 

"  Aha !  "  said  the  guard.  "  Another  gentleman.  Mon- 
sieur's friend?  " 

"  I  know  him,  yes." 

"  Monsieur  had  been  confided  to  his  care  ?  " 

''  No,  no,"  the  boy  said.  "  He  is  not  old."  His  eyes  had 
grown  troubled. 

"  Just  tell  about  him,"  Jem  prompted.  "  It's  better  to 
have  all  the  facts." 

Antoine  told  about  Jacques,  and  as  he  did  so  his  quick 
mind  faced  the  possibility  that  Jacques  could  be  suspected. 
Being  Antoine,  the  moment  he  had  the  idea,  he  conveyed 
it  unconsciously  to  those  who  regarded  him.  He  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  keenly,  with  a  painful  frown,  as 
he  presented  the  suspicious  facts  simply  in  order.  Jacques 
knew  the  value  of  the  violins,  certainly.  He  was  an  artist 
himself,  of  a  certain  prominence — yes,  poor.  He  had  sud- 
denly determined  to  travel  down  to  Amiens — to  see  a  friend. 
Antoine  did  not  think  he  had  previously  heard  of  the 
friend's  existence.  Jacques  had  disappeared  soundlessly 
at  the  station,  and  without  farewell.  Yes,  he  had  known 
Antoine's  father  would  be  there.  He  had  consented  to  meet 
him,  just  previously. 

"Monsieur  must  not  imagine  that  we  suspect  this  gentle- 
man," observed  the  guard  cheerfully  at  this  point,  "  merely 
because  we  inform  ourselves.  He  serves  as  a  witness,  eh  ? — 
in  all  cases.    What  is  his  address?" 

"  I  would  rather  not  tell  you,"  said  Antoine,  drawing 


328  SUCCESSION 

back.  "  He  does  not  want  it  to  be  known.  He  has  to  be 
quiet,  just  now,  for  his  studies.  I  mean — it  is  not  easy  for 
him."  His  voice  failed,  and  he  Hfted  a  hand  to  his  throat. 
The  other  two  were  silent,  the  guard  looking  kindly  over 
his  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  "  May  I  tell  you  his  hotel  at 
Amiens  ?  "  said  the  boy  at  last.  "  He  did  say  he  would  go 
there." 

"  Why  not  to  his  friend,  if  he  had  one?  "  said  Jem. 

"  He  was  not  sure  if  that  friend  wanted  him,"  said  An- 
toine.  "  It  was  long  they  had  not  met,  you  see,  and  th-this 
man  had  got  poor."  He  avoided  Charretteur's  name  with 
an  effort  every  time.  He  recalled  some  of  the  discreditable 
tales  attached  to  it,  and  he  thought  with  horror  of  the  new 
and  nasty  little  scandal  there  must  be,  if  any  part  of  the 
adventure  became  known  in  his  old  circles.  Even  during 
his  short  career,  Antoine  had  learnt  to  dread  the  journalist's 
pen.  The  occurrence  was,  for  Jacques,  a  deadly  mischance, 
unless  all  mention  of  his  connection  with  it  could  be  avoided, 
"  Please,"  he  said  to  the  guard,  with  recovered  energy,  "  I 
am  sure  it  is  not  him.  I  cannot  show  you  all  the  reasons 
why  I  am  sure,  but  here  is  one.  That  " — he  indicated  the 
case  left  in  the  rack — "  is  my  new  violin,  and  I  told  him 
he  could  have  it.  We  were  joking  about  them,  do  you  see? 
He  knows  I  do  not  want  it,  and  how  I  think  of  the  other, 
very  well.  He  is — he  is  a  person  who  knows,  altogether. 
He  could — not — have  taken  it  away."  His  steady,  full 
look  was  certainly  persuasive. 

"  Couldn't  he  have  meant  to  take  that  for  a  lark,"  said 
Jem,  "  and  laid  hands  on  the  wrong  one  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  setting  his  lips.  "  That  would  be  a 
stupid  mistake,  and  he  is  a  clever  man." 

Edgell's  eyes  and  the  guard's  met,  and  the  latter  con- 
tented himself  with  noting  the  name  of  Jacques'  hotel. 

"  Now,"  said  the  boy,  when  this  futile  business  was  con- 
cluded, "will  you  think  about  the  others?  They  may  be 
down  there,  in  the  train." 

"  Not  likely,"  said  Jem.  "  However,  give  us  a  descrip- 
tion." 


TRAGEDYBEGINS  329 

Unfortunately,  no  one  in  the  world  was  a  worse  hand  at 
description  than  Antoine.  He  did  his  best,  tormenting  his 
memory,  that  excellent  machine,  to  extract  details  his  ob- 
servation had  never  put  there;  confusing  himself  rapidly  in 
the  process,  as  imagination  sprang  to  his  aid.  Antoine  re- 
jected its  advances,  and  said  firmly  to  the  guard's  insinuat- 
ing questions  that  he  did  not  know.  "  Jacques  would  re- 
member, perhaps,"  he  assented  wearily,  "  I  did  not  look 
at  them  much.  The  man  had  a  coat  turned  up  round  here. 
He  had  stupid  eyes,  and  his  voice  was  ugly — hoarse.  The 
lady  was  pretty — I  think." 

"Monsieur  thinks?"  echoed  the  guard.  He  wanted, 
both  as  a  man  and  an  official,  more  about  the  lady. 

"  Monsieur  is  thinking  too  much,"  Edgell  struck  in. 
"  See  now,  answers  are  simplest.  She  was  veiled  ?  No. 
Dressed  in  black?  Yes.  A  fair  lady,  rather  stout.  Did 
you   see  her  hands?" 

To  be  sure :  Antoine  always  looked  at  hands.  She  took 
off  white  gloves,  as  if  she  had  been  to  the  theatre,  her 
hands  were  large  and  pink,  and  she  had  four  rings.  One 
hurt  her,  and  she  complained  of  it,  took  it  off,  and  gave  it 
to  the  man,  w^ho  put  it  in  a  breast-pocket. 

"  Admirable,"  the  guard  murmured.  "  Proceed,  Mon- 
sieur." 

She  was  not  wearing  a  wrap  or  cloak,  but  had  one  over 
her  knees.  She  seemed  hot  and  fanned  herself.  She  called 
the  man  Henri  and  used  the  tu,  and  he  never  looked  at  her. 

So  much  Jem  got  with  no  trouble.  His  easy,  almost 
nonchalant  manner  of  questioning  seemed  to  inspire  the 
boy,  and  his  eyes  hung  on  his  father  as  though  the  only 
assistance  lay  there.  Indeed,  a  far  keener  critic  than  An- 
toine would  have  failed  to  discover  by  Edgell's  appearance 
that  he  had  no  hope  whatever  left  of  recovering  the  instru- 
ment. 

While  the  guard,  notebook  in  hand,  went  on  a  voyage 
of  inspection  along  the  train,  Jem  filled  in  his  own  impres- 
sions with  a  few  more  details,  extracted  in  leisurely  Eng- 


330  SUCCESSION 

lish  confidence.  The  boy,  utterly  weary,  endeavoured  to 
content  him,  though  piecing  his  EngHsh  words  together  with 
increasingly  obvious  efifort.  Jem  mustered  his  evidence, 
wondering  secretly  if  Antoine  in  supplying  it  realised  its 
full  significance,  and  then  said  quietly :  "  You  like  him, 
eh?" 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  said,  twisting  his  lip.  "  I  wish  he  had 
not  run  away — you  might  have  seen  him  then.  I  had  al- 
ready thought — it  was  a  pity." 

"  Don't  worry,"  said  Jem,  and,  dropping  a  hand  on  his 
wrist,  leant  back  to  frown  over  the  chances.  He  had 
adopted  his  son's  idea  of  this  Charretteur,  with  reservations 
to  his  own  common-sense,  and  balanced  the  two  views  at 
leisure.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  the  man  had  muckered  his 
career  and  involved  himself  in  money  difficulties,  as  the  boy 
hinted,  the  opportunity  of  repairing  his  fortunes  had  been 
an  obvious  one,  even  for  the  unskilled  hand.  Given  two 
human  beings  and  two  violins  in  a  compartment,  no  by- 
stander would  be  surprised  to  see  one  of  the  pair  lift' 
a  violin  from  the  rack.  Behind  the  owner's  back  he  could 
have  done  it  and  absconded  quite  at  leisure.  In  the  alter- 
native case,  a  thief  from  without  would  have  had  to  avoid 
this  "  clever  "  young  man's  own  sharp  eye.  There  had  been 
no  commotion  evidently,  no  alarm  called.  All  the  actors  ! 
had  simply  vanished,  and  the  violin  as  well.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  avoid  suspicion  falling  on  a  man  already  in  the 
musical  career,  with  knowledge  of  the  object  he  stole,  and 
means  at  hand,  as  was  probable,  for  disposing  of  his  booty. 
Thus  presented,  the  case  stood  strong  against  Jacques. 

But,  on  the  other  side,  Jem  had  picked  out  for  the  de- 
fence two  admissions:  firstly,  this  unknown  fellow  liked 
the  violin ;  and  secondly,  that  he  had  accepted  a  sum  of 
money  quite  recently  from  its  owner.  The  first  statement 
oflfered  quite  a  different  motive  for  the  theft,  and  the  lat- 
ter made  theft  of  any  sort  unlikely.  It  takes  a  very  low 
character,  thought  Jem,  to  rob  a  boy,  more  especially  a  bene- 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  331 

factor;  and  Antoine  himself  called  the  low  character  his 
friend. 

That  was  the  final  consideration  in  the  case :  that  "  the 
kid  "  cared  for  him.  None  knew  better  than  his  father, 
naturally,  the  naive  credulity  and  confidence  of  which  An- 
toine was  capable,  when  his  heart  was  engaged.  It  was 
just  those  qualities  that  had  made  him  at  all  times  so  easy 
to  mislead  and  torment,  by  such  of  his  circle  as  enjoyed  the 
sport.  Yet,  apart  from  that  simplicity,  Jem  admitted  An- 
toine's  instinct,  even  a  penetration,  fine  and  sure,  that  had 
often  exceeded  theirs.  He  had  rarely,  with  those  whose 
society  he  deliberately  chose,  gone  badly  wrong.  His  very 
expansiveness  was  a  safeguard,  his  agile  tongue  provoking 
retort,  besieging  the  stronghold  of  confidence.  In  a  sense 
he  was  exacting  too,  for  he  claimed  the  fair  exchange ;  and 
the  fact  that  he  believed  so  strongly  in  this  Charretteur 
suggested  at  least  that  Charretteur  was  well  disposed  to  him. 

Antoine  was  exceedingly  silent  and  languid  till  the  guard's 
return,  which  occurred  when  they  were  close  on  Calais. 
He  woke  with  a  start  out  of  half-a-doze  as  that  official 
bustled  in.  No  news,  he  assured  them.  No  one  in  the 
neighbouring  carriages  had  noticed  the  pair  of  persons,  or 
recognised  their  description.  They  had  got  down,  without 
doubt,  at  Amiens. 

"  Monsieur  had  better  telegraph  there,"  he  said,  "  and 
to  Paris,  which  is  the  better  chance.  They  would  have 
separated,  and  one,  probably  the  woman,  taken  the  first 
train  back,  the  instrument — granted  it  were  with  them — ■ 
enveloped  in  the  shawl  Monsieur  had  mentioned."  He 
gave  these  speculations  complacently,  as  one  having  experi- 
ence ;  but  the  picture  presented  went  to  Antoine's  heart. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  he  muttered  just  audibly.  His 
nerves  broke  loose.  "  You  must  get  it,  please — it  is  mine. 
I  must  have  it.    Will  you  try?" 

"  Pauvre  petit,"  the  lady  murmured,  at  his  tears.  "  He 
was  tired  already,  and  has  had  no  sleep."  She  glanced,  as 
though  almost  in  apology  for  the  more  sensitive  race,  at  the 


332  SUCCESSION 

Englishman.  She  saw  the  lines  in  his  forehead  grow 
deeper,  but  his  actions  were  still  easy  and  controlled.  He 
pushed  the  boy  back  into  his  own  corner,  and  stood  in  the 
way,  half  kneeling  on  the  seat,  and  bending  his  tall  head, 
as  though  to  screen  him  from  the  public  eye.  He  dis- 
couraged very  bluntly  any  further  imaginative  forecast  on 
the  part  of  the  guard. 

"  Monsieur  can  break  the  journey  here,"  that  worthy 
suggested.  "  It  would  be  of  assistance,  with  the  necessity 
of  telegraphy  in  view." 

Edgell  shook  his  head.  "  I  wish  I  could,"  he  said  under 
his  breath.    "  I  have  to  take  him  through." 

"  Stay,  papa,"  gasped  Antoine,  moving.  "  That  will  be 
better.     I  will  go  on." 

At  the  same  instant  the  French  lady  offered  her  escort, 
with  a  kindness  and  interest  unmistakable. 

Jem  thanked  her,  and  did  not  argue  the  point;  but  it 
became  clear  that  he  did  not  intend  to  let  his  son  out  of  his 
sight  for  the  next  twelve  hours. 

"  Good !  "  said  the  company  of  the  Nord,  resigned,  and 
turned  a  page  of  the  notebook,  "  Londres — Continental — 
till  this  evening.  After  that  the  head  office  at  Amiens? 
Aha,  convenience  itself.  Monsieur  will  answer,  I  trust,  for 
our  anxiety  to  serve  him."    He  bowed  himself  out. 

James,  having  done  all  that  conscience  demanded  and 
time  permitted  at  Calais,  and  impressed  himself  on  the  at- 
tention of  all  officials  in  reach  in  a  manner  only  possible  to 
a  British  subject  with  a  grievance,  authority  at  his  back, 
and  two  languages  at  command,  came  on  board  the  boat 
in  a  state  of  righteous  satisfaction,  ready  to  put  off  further 
thinking  till  daylight,  and  recruit  his  powers  with  sleep 
in  a  deck-chair  at  Antoine's  side.  But  it  was  harder  to  do 
so  when  at  every  half-open  glance  in  the  boy's  direction  he 
saw  his  brilliant,  restless  eyes  following  the  white  wash  of 
the  waves.  He  lay  languidly  in  his  chair,  his  head  back 
and  his  wrists  crossed  behind  his  head.    At  his  feet  lay  the 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  333 

exquisite  stranger,  as  closely  muffled  as  he  from  the  damp 
night  air,  and  his  right  foot  rested  carelessly  on  the  case, 
almost  as  though  spurning  while  he  guarded.  It  was  an 
expressive  pose  as  usual,  even  to  the  detail  of  his  half- 
dropped  lashes,  and  the  thumb  and  finger  meeting  on  the 
careless  hand,  as  though  prepared  for  his  customary  im- 
patient gesture.  Occasionally  his  brows  lifted,  as  a  more 
than  usually  weighty  thought  crossed  his  brain,  just  as  a 
more  considerable  crested  wave  would  well  up  under  his 
vision.  On  one  of  these  thoughts  his  glance  shifted,  and 
he  caught  his  father's  eye. 

"  You  told  grandpapa?  "  he  said,  in  his  light,  weary  voice, 
more  childish  than  his  appearance. 

"  I  wired  to  Phil,"  said  James.  "  He  can  use  his  discre- 
tion."   The  boy  still  watched  him  a  minute. 

"  Yes — thank  you,"  he  said. 

"  Not  sick,  are  you  ?  "  said  his  father,  for  the  seething  sea 
they  looked  upon  was  far  from  calm. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not  time."  He  laughed 
just  audibly,  as  he  settled  to  reflection  again.  The  men- 
tion of  his  grandfather's  name  suggested  the  tenor  of  those 
reflections,  and  Edgell,  drowsy  as  he  was,  saw  the  thing 
through  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  he,"  he  thought,  with  real  awe  and  uncon- 
scious respect.  "  Chief  sufferer  and  chief  sinner  too  in 
such  an  affair — and  with  those  people  to  deal  with."  He 
considered  his  wife's  family  for  a  space,  as  he  had  often 
considered  them,  with  the  ease  of  a  comparative  outsider. 
"  Well,  Lucien  sha'n't  rag  him  anyway,"  was  the  result  of 
his  pondering.    "  I'll  see  to  that." 

As  it  happened,  his  protection  was  not  necessary,   for 

Lucien  at  Victoria  took  the  news  with  more  self-control 

than  he  had  expected.    He  was  a  little  disconcerted  to  begin 

with.,  for  he  had  arrived  unprepared  to  see  James.     It  is 

i  probable  he  would  not  have  put  himself  about  to  rise  before 

i  six,  had  he  known  his  nephew  already  provided  with  such 

1  a  guardian.    As  it  was,  he  stood  on  the  platform  looking  as 


334  SUCCESSION 

usual,  well  dressed  and  trim  amid  his  somewhat  drab  sur- 
roundings, and  welcomed  them  with  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
as  the  train  slackened.  He  heard  out  his  brother-in-law's 
summary  of  the  adventure  in  silence. 

"  Psst !  "  said  Lucien.  "  How  like  him."  He  frowned 
once  and  planted  his  foot  in  a  stamp  on  the  station  plat- 
form. "  Well,  and  the  affair  to-night — ^the  concerto. 
What  is  he  to  play  ?  " 

"  There's  another  fiddle  come  along,"  his  inexpert 
brother-in-law  told  him.  "  A  recent  presentation.  He 
says  it  will  serve." 

"  Good  heavens,  what  a  godsend,"  cried  Lucien. 

"  It's  no  consolation,"  said  James.  He  watched  the 
meeting  of  the  pair  with  suspicion,  but  he  could  find  no 
fault  with  M.  Lemaure's  behaviour.  He  laid  a  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder  with  marked  kindness,  and  put  him  into  a 
cab  with  very  little  said.  He  omitted  even  his  usual  cor- 
rect inquiries  as  to  his  father's  health.  He  was,  for  Lucien, 
a  little  peculiar,  and  different  from  Antoine's  memory, 
though  it  was  true  all  things  seemed  strange  to-day.  He 
had  braced  himself  to  meet  a  storm,  and  found  only  the 
most  amiable  propriety. 

"  No,  no,  there  is  no  rehearsal,"  he  answered  a  query 
carelessly.  "  Wurst  says  he  knows  your  ways  of  old.  You 
are  not  too  tired,  mon  cher?  You  would  do  well  to  come 
straight  to  the  hotel  and  get  some  sleep.  Eight  o'clock 
to-night  and  close  by — only  the  hour's  work,  I  saw  to 
that.  No,  the  boxes  can  wait  till  later.  We  will  see  to  the 
business  presently." 

"  Is  there  business  ?"  the  boy  said  mechanically,  as  they 
both  followed  him  into  the  car.  It  seemed  to  him  odd  to 
abandon  the  boxes,  for  the  charge  of  various  precious 
things  was  on  his  mind. 

"  I  have  yet  to  hear  details,"  said  his  uncle,  glancing  at 
James.  "  But  there  is  no  harm  in  prompting  the  police. 
If  a  rogue  at  Amiens  wished  to  leave  the  country,  it  is 


TRAGEDY   BEGINS  335 

clear  which  way  he  would  come,  Jem,  you  know  Scotland 
Yard.     What  time  do  the  dark  blue  gentlemen  get  up?" 

In  short,  Lucien,  like  Jem  in  the  first  instance,  seemed 
half  inclined  to  a  demeanour  of  festivity.  Why,  Antoine 
had  no  idea,  since  for  his  own  part  he  felt  more  like  a 
funeral.  The  day  was  dark  to  him,  the  weight  on  his 
brain  intolerable,  London  more  formidable  and  joyless  even 
than  of  old.  He  was  dragged  like  a  prisoner,  feeling  as 
dull  and  helpless,  to  a  strange  hotel  room,  surrounded  for 
some  minutes  there  by  the  fuss  of  servants  and  contrary 
orders,  and  forced  by  his  father's  hands  to  swallow  some- 
thing warm.  As  to  what  they  were  discussing,  he  gave  it 
the  barest  attention,  and  only  gathered  his  faculties  when 
addressed.  His  uncle's  new  manner  still  baffled  and  al- 
most seemed  to  mock  him ;  but  at  least  in  speaking  he  was 
clear  and  slow.  He  heard  Lucien  invite  his  father  to  pass 
the  night  at  Brackenhall,  and  with  a  fresh  sense  of  disap- 
pointment, Jem's  decisive  refusal. 

"  The  thing's  my  affair,"  said  Jem.  "  I  claim  an  interest 
for  once,  at  least  as  great  as  yours.  I  sha'n't  leave  a  stone 
unturned  on  that  side,  if  you  watch  here.  You  stay  up,  of 
course?  " 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Lucien.  "  For  this  personage,  I  am 
under  orders." 

"  How  ?  "  said  Antoine,  as  he  caught  a  glance. 

"  You  sleep  at  Brackenhall  to-night,  at  least.  My  wife 
is  expecting  you  and  will  not  be  disappointed.  I  will  tele- 
graph and  explain.  Well,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  For  An- 
toine, watching  him,  had  frowned.  "  You  trust  me  in 
your  interests,  do  you  not?  But  he  is  half  asleep,"  the 
master  laughed.  "  I  should  know  the  violin  at  least  as 
well  as  you." 

"  Yes,  yes — of  course."  The  boy  diverted  his  gaze.  "  I 
will  go  down,"  he  said,  after  a  minute,  gently.  "  She  is 
very  kind." 

"  He  has  got  there,"  reflected  Jem,  amused.     "  He's  not 


336  SUCCESSION 

so  quick  as  usual  this  morning."  Personally,  knowing  his 
sister-in-law  well,  and  the  influence  of  her  exquisite  idea 
of  the  becoming  on  all  that  surrounded  her,  he  had  awak- 
ened sooner  to  the  origin  of  Lucien's  change  of  tone. 
Cecile  Lemaure's  life's  adoration  was  accomplishment,  the 
technical  above  all.  She  had  that  instinct  and  passion  for 
the  right  way  of  doing  things,  of  manipulating  material, 
even  of  the  poorest,  to  the  best  advantage,  that  is  eminently 
French.  Lucien  was  a  neat  technician,  of  material  not 
quite  the  best,  but  it  contented  her.  Antoine,  barely  recog- 
nised as  an  "  original  "  during  the  two  years  he  had  been  the 
pupil  and  fag  of  her  household,  had  proved  himself  since 
of  the  royal  stuff.  He  was  no  longer  to  be  treated  in  the 
same  way.  He  was  to  be  sheltered  now,  not  used ;  regarded, 
not  laughed  at;  studied  rather  than  criticised.  It  was  a  j 
notable  change  of  view,  approaching  to  the  delicate  snob-  ! 
bism  of  certain  Parisian  circles,  which  Cecile  had  already 
foreshadowed  to  her  little  world  at  Brackenhall,  and  which  ■ 
Lucien  had  absorbed  unknowing.  1 

"  Do  you  mind,"  he  inquired,  at  parting,  "  if  we  lock  the  | 
door?"  He  had  a  smile,  and  his  hand  rested  lightly  on  j 
the  presentation  violin.  "  I  mean " — as  the  boy  looked  j 
from  him  to  it — "  one  might  be  asleep  at  our  return."  j 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Antoine,  endeavouring  to  answer  the 
smile.    "  I  expect  it  is  better."  [ 

Lucien  locked  the  door  with  a  click,  and  joined  Jem  ; 
upon  the  stairs. 

"  Poor  little  creature,"  he  said,  with  unusual  feeling. 
"Thank  heaven,  Jem,  you  were  there.  Really,  he  would 
have  gone  crazy  alone." 

"  No,  he  would  not,"  said  Jem,  whom  Lucien  stirred  to 
pugnacity.  "  He  has  an  uncommon  level  head,  the  young- 
ster. He'd  have  done  all  I  did,  in  less  time.  Gets  it  from 
me,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  What  was  he  thinking  of,  to  leave  the  thing  at  all  ?  " 
Lucien  ejaculated. 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  337 

"  Me,"  said  his  brother-in-law  blandly.  "  I  may  men- 
tion that  as  soon  as  I  was  in,  I  looked  up  to  see  that  all 
was  right.  It's  a  bad  look-out.  Whoever  did  it,  you  see, 
did  it  too  well.  The  rug  was  rearranged  across  a  stick,  and 
tucked  in,  to  follow  the  form  of  the  cases.  We  should 
never  have  missed  a  thing  till  Calais,  but  for  the  chance 
of  wanting  the  rug." 

"  You  have  the  stick  ?  "  snapped  Lucien. 

"  I  have,"  said  James,  still  bland.    "  It's  my  own." 

"Ridiculous  to  have  wrapped  them  up  at  all,"  growled 
the  master,  relapsing. 

"You  think  so,  do  you?"  said  Jem,  with  interest. 

"  Well,  wouldn't  it  suggest  to  any  fool  they  were 
precious  ?  " 

"  Suggests  my  fool's  a  precious  little  goat,"  said  James. 
"  I  know  that  already,  thank  you.  Suggests  a  lot  more 
things  I  haven't  time  to  tell  you — surprise  you  if  I  did. 
Say,  Lucien,  I  had  a  question.  Do  you  know  of  a  fellow 
called  Charretteur  ?  " 

"Hey?"  His  brother-in-law  rose  to  the  bait  with  a 
snap.     "  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  He  was  in  the  carriage,  that's  all.  I  thought  you 
might  have  placed  the  kid  in  his  charge." 

"I?"  Lucien  ejaculated.  Having  thus  amused  himself, 
Jem  related  the  facts  with  conspicuous  fairness  in  order, 
so  far  as  he  had  yet  unearthed  them. 

"  Do  you  make  anything  of  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  make  out  he  has  the  violin,"  said  Lucien  curtly,  and 
proceeded  to  air  his  views  in  turn.  Jacques  had  been 
before  the  public  eye  for  a  short  season,  but  it  was  long 
enough  for  his  character  and  origin  to  be  discussed,  and 
every  picturesque  incident  of  his  career  quoted  with  orna- 
ment, especially  among  the  regular  art  contingent  from  the 
colleges  and  schools.  Lucien  still  touched  musical  college 
gossip  at  many  points,  and  he  had  a  taste  himself  for 
piquant  little  scandals.     Savigny,  who  owned  in  his  pro- 


338  SUCCESSION 

fessional  capacity  knowledge  of  the  subject  at  once  more 
remarkable  and  more  veracious,  had  kept  his  confidence 
perfectly,  and  had  only  grumbled  out,  in  the  Lemaures' 
presence,  as  even  a  doctor  may,  his  personal  distaste. 
Charretteur  himself  was  not  the  man  to  deny  adventures 
ascribed  to  him.  He  smiled  sidelong  on  such,  and  let 
them  run  without  criticism.  At  some  of  Lucien's  details 
Jem  was  a  little  grave. 

"  I  always  told  my  father  what  would  come  of  the  con- 
nection," said  Lucien,  who  saw  his  disapproval.  "  We  shall 
never  trace  him  now,  for  his  acquaintance  is  as  wide  as  it 
is  shady.  How  the  devil  did  he  rediscover  the  boy,  I  want 
to  know.     Raymond  might  have  seen  to  it." 

"  Mightn't  he  ?  "  Jem  agreed.  "  Raymond's  engaged, 
and  I'm  occupied,  and  you're  somewhere  else,  and  Phil's  a 
selfish  young  dog.  We  take  honours,  the  lot  of  us,  in  the 
attendance  line." 

"  It  was  an  oversight,"  M.  Lemaure  admitted,  and  said 
no  more  for  a  time.  Jem  paid  a  private  tribute  to  his 
manners,  and  was  silent  also.  Lucien  had  a  wife  as  well 
as  his  work,  and  until  the  two  claimed  him  inevitably,  his 
strict  guardianship  of  Antoine  had  been  immaculate.  He 
had  nothing  whatever  to  reproach  himself  with — men  such 
as  Lucien  never  had,  and  it  was  a  part  of  their  irritating 
quality. 

Throughout  the  day's  business,  at  station  and  police 
offices,  James  felt  him  at  his  side,  now  prepared  to  prompt, 
now  tactfully  silent,  filling  in  his  omissions  or  lubricating 
his  roughness  of  method  in  his  neat  French  way,  unfail- 
ingly quick  and  attentive,  and  not  infrequently  amusing  too, 
though  it  was  apt  to  be  at  the  expense  of  the  nation  with 
whom  he  dealt. 

"  Age  improves  Lucien,"  Jem  reflected.  "  After  all, 
his  father's  qualities  must  be  in  him  somewhere.  Cecile's 
as  clever  as  they  make  them  too.  Pity  he's  got  no  children 
to  carry  on  the  line."    It  may  have  been  such  thoughts  that 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  339 

urged  him,  when  immediate  business  was  disposed  of,  to 
renew  the  subject  of  the  missing  Jacques. 

"  Lucien,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  Antoine  appealed  to  me, 
and  to  you  through  me,  to  keep  this  young  fellow's  name 
from  public  mention  in  the  afifair,  and  more  specially  from 
the  press.  He  clearly  knows  a  thing  or  two  of  those  you've 
been  telling  me,  or  he  would  not  have  been  so  earnest.  He 
proposes "  Jem  was  proceeding,  when  his  brother- 
in-law  struck  in. 

"  Antoine  is  entirely  incapable  of  realising  the  situation, 
still  less  of  proposing  any  line  of  action  in  it.  He  has 
made  the  blunder,  and  he  had  better  leave  the  reparation 
of  it  to  us." 

"  I  guess  he  realises  a  bit,"  returned  Jem.  "  He  was 
realising  under  my  eyes  from  Dover  to  London;  and  he 
wasn't  happy,  either.  He  proposes  to  write  himself  to  the 
fellow  to-day,  and  to  leave  negotiations,  if  they  are  neces- 
sary, to  a  certain  person  in  Paris." 

"My  father?"  snapped  Lucien.  "I  will  not  have  him 
vexed  about  it.    I  would  sooner  go  over  myself." 

"  It  wasn't  your  father  he  proposed,"  said  Jem,  "  or  you. 
Or  me,  for  that  matter,  because  he  weighed  me  up  and 
down,  somewhere  about  Canterbury,  and  found  me  want- 
ing. Then  he  got  to  work  again,  and  towards  Croydon  the 
right  one  turned  up.     Now  then,  what  was  the  name?" 

"  Duchatel,"  said  Lucien,  impatient  of  his  deliberation. 

"  No ;  a  shorter  name.  He  must  be  the  right  sort,  be- 
cause after  he  thought  of  him,  the  kid  went  to  sleep.  The 
vision  of  you,"  Jem  added,  unprovoked,  "  would  never  have 
sent  him  off  so  peacefully." 

"  I  will  ask  him,"  said  Lucien  shortly. 

But  he  did  not,  at  least  till  the  next  morning;  for  when 
they  returned  to  the  hotel  at  lunch-time,  the  boy  was  sleep- 
ing fast,  curled  up  on  the  window  couch.  Two  letters,  ad- 
dressed in  his  odd  bold  hand,  one  to  his  grandfather  and  one 
to  Dr  Bronne,  lay  at  his  side  on  the  table.    Jem,  however, 


340  SUCCESSION 

paid  no  heed  to  them,  when  at  his  departure  he  slid  an 
arm  beneath  the  writer. 

"  You  will  take  those,"  Antoine  said,  when  the  awaken- 
ing process  was  more  or  less  accomplished.  "  That  will 
be  quicker,  I  think." 

"  Right,"  said  Jem,  stowing  them  away.  "  No  further 
directions?  " 

"  No."  He  blinked,  still  dizzy  with  sleep,  and  groping 
for  his  English  words.  "  It  is  to-night  I  have  to  play  ?  "  he 
asked. 

His  father  nodded,  scanning  him.  "Tired?"  he  said, 
for  his  eyes  were  singularly  heavy. 

"  No,  no.    I  was  only  not  sure — about  the  days." 

"  Hoped  it  had  become  to-morrow,  hey  ?  Or  yester- 
day ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  As  Jem  subsided  on  the  couch,  he 
struggled  up  and  slid  both  arms  about  his  father's  neck. 
"  I  was  stupid  to  lose  it,"  he  confessed,  low,  but  with  pas- 
sionate expression. 

"  Stupid  little  donkey,"  Jem  assented.  "  What  would 
your  mother  have  said  ?  " 

"  Elle  m'aurait  gifle,"  the  boy  murmured.  "  You  were 
always  more  kind." 

"Rash  to  leave  the  query,"  Jem  reflected,  privately 
amused.  "  He  never  lets  one  off.  Sure  you  can  manage  to 
get  through  to-night,"  he  said,  concealing  his  real  anxiety, 
"  without  your  friend." 

"Which  violin  does  not  matter,"  explained  Antoine, 
with  gravity,  "  to  them." 

"Only  to  us,  hey?" 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  to  you,  if  I  had  not  said  it  was 
gone."    He  laughed,  still  looking  wretched. 

"  Pluck,"  Jem  muttered,  and  waited  an  instant.  "  Like 
to  come  to  California,"  he  inquired  casually,  "  in  Febru- 
ary?" 

"  Papa !    Es-tu  sot !    Of  course  I  can't." 


TRAGEDY    BEGINS  341 

"  It's  a  jolly  nice  part,"  said  Jem.  "  I've  got  to  go  over, 
as  it  turns  out." 

Antoine  stared  at  him  with  lifted  brows.  Of  course,  his 
father  always  had  a  way  of  regarding  a  thousand  miles 
much  as  ordinary  members  of  society  regard  ten.  "  Is 
it  true  you  will  go  ?  "  he  asked,  after  examination. 

"  I  guess  so,  owing  to  that  young  Banks'  folly.  He  says 
the  plans  aren't  workable,  which  means  he's  not  fit  to  work 
them." 

"They  are  beautiful,"  said  Antoine,  with  decision;  he 
having  been  permitted  at  St  Aviel  to  study  half-a-page. 

"  So  I  said  I  should  come  along  pretty  soon,"  Jem  pro- 
ceeded, "  and  perhaps  bring  an  assistant.  I  didn't  promise 
what  sort." 

"  I  should  assist  you  ?  "  inquired  Antoine,  looking  very 
intently,  though  his  tone  was  light.  James  looked  intently 
back. 

"  They'd  never  expect,  out  of  Europe,  anyone  brighter 
than  you." 

"  You  say  this  '  pour  rire,'  hein  ? "  suggested  Antoine. 
There  was  not  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  to  reassure  him — 
such  was  Jem's  way. 

"  There  are  some  places  I  could  show  you,"  he  said, 
"  no  one  on  this  -side  ever  dreamed.  Big  places  made  so, 
not  little  scraps  of  nature  raked  over.  Stuff  to  get  hold 
of,  not  always  slipping  through  your  hand.  If  you  wanted 
something  to  think  about,  or  play  about,  or  write  about " 

"  Do  not,"  said  the  boy  breathlessly.    "  Not  now." 

"  Too  big  to  tackle,"  his  father  suggested.  "  I'll  advertise 
then,  all  right.  Sorry  I  mentioned  it— now.  Go  to  sleep 
again,  stupid,  it's  all  you're  fit  for." 

But  he  was  not  at  all  sorry  he  had  mentioned  it;  nor 
had  the  proposition,  carelessly  as  it  was  produced,  been 
unconsidered.  He  watched  the  boy's  dreamy  expression, 
in  the  interval  before  he  left,  keenly,  as  though  he  would 
have  followed  his  thoughts.  Jem  was  given  to  undervaluing 
himself  in  the  intellectual  world,  but  not  with  this  most 


342 


SUCCESSION 


accomplished  of  his  children.  He  reckoned  in  that  inter- 
val exactly  the  effort  it  would  cost  to  whistle  him  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  leave  all  the  musical  connection 
frantic.  The  idea  tickled  him,  but  he  found  a  measure  of 
reason  in  it  which  made  it  the  more  attractive.  It  had 
something  of  the  boy's  own  attraction ;  and  it  kept  intrud- 
ing on  his  more  serious  thoughts,  as  he  retraced  his  way 
to  France  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    CRITIC 

"You  will  have  to  give  up  Charretteur's  address,"  said  M. 
Lucien  to  his  nephew,  when  he  reached  home  the  next 
morning.  "  It  is  perfectly  absurd  to  keep  the  police  in  the 
dark.    For  all  you  know,  the  instrument  may  be  there." 

"  I  know  it  is  not  there,"  said  Antoine. 

"  On  your  own  showing,"  said  Lucien,  "  the  fellow's 
behaviour  was  underhand.  He  joined  you  for  no  reason 
and  left  you  furtively.  I  do  not  assert  he  is  dishonest ; 
he  may  have  taken  it  on  a  stupid  impulse  to  tease  you. 
There  is  no  reckoning  with  a  drunkard." 

"  He  is  not  a  drunkard,"  said  Antoine. 

He  looked  simply  sulky,  as  he  drilled  holes  with  a  pencil 
on  the  paper  pile  beneath  his  hand.  He  had  climbed  nearly 
on  to  the  table  in  agitation  of  mind,  and  the  points  of  his 
wild  hair  bristled  in  all  directions.  Beneath  it  his  face  was 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  avoided  his  uncle.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected this  morning  visit,  and  he  did  not  desire  it;  but  he 
felt  debarred  from  expressing  his  full  feelings,  in  the  new 
state  of  things  at  Brackenhall ;  and  since  ordinary  patience 
was  not  sufficient,  he  had  to  summon  the  tolerance  of  his 
public  life  to  aid  him,  in  order  to  remain  decently  com- 
posed. 

Up  to  this,  all  had  gone  well.  He  had  arrived  alone  the 
night  before,  and  had  explained  things  quite  to  his  own 
satisfaction,  his  aunt  attending,  polite  if  amused.  She  had 
always  been  amused  by  his  most  ordinary  remarks,  and 
her  new  and  charming  courtesy  could  not  quite  conceal  the 

343 


344 


SUCCESSION 


expression.  His  first  hasty  observation — "  Grandpapa  said 
I  was  to  give  you  his  love  before  I  forgot " — entirely  dis- 
jointed her  opening  formality;  and  after  that  she  found 
it  hard  to  be  quite  serious  again;  especially  when  Antoine 
told  her  on  inquiry  all  about  Jacques  and  the  lady  in  the 
train.  This  had  been  the  part  of  the  whole  day's  adventure 
that  interested  her  the  most,  so  he  naturally  enlarged  on  it 
so  far  as  his  memory  would  serve.  Only  he  was  oppressed 
by  a  feeling  that,  strive  as  he  would — and  he  was  quite 
excited  and  talkative  after  the  concert— he  was  giving  her 
a  wrong  impression  of  Charretteur.  This  was  the  more 
annoying  that  she  always  communicated  her  impressions 
soon  or  late  to  her  husband,  and  Antoine  suspected  his 
uncle  to  be  already  prejudiced,  even  before  they  had  had  a 
conversation  on  the  subject.  He  now  feared  that  the  pair 
must  have  shared  their  suspicions  below;  else  why  should 
Lucien  post  upstairs  and  disturb  his  morning  retirement 
like  this? 

He  was  in  possession  of  the  guest's  room  at  Brackenhall, 
though  he  would  have  much  preferred,  had  he  been  con- 
sulted, his  original  little  burrow  on  the  floor  above.  It 
seemed  strange,  from  this  lower  level,  to  look  out  upon  the 
same  garden  view,  engraved  upon  his  memory,  so  often  he 
had  watched  it  up  there  while  struggling  to  arrange  the 
thronging  ideas  in  his  mind.  The  view  was  not  quite  right, 
he  decided,  without  the  farthest  line  of  woods  behind,  and 
the  worry  of  such  incompletion  barred  his  brow  as  he  stood 
watching,  and  accounted  no  doubt  for  the  general  derange- 
ment of  his  thoughts.  When  his  uncle  came  at  ten  o'clock 
he  had  been  trying  to  dress,  but  matters  had  not  advanced 
very  far.  He  felt  extraordinarily  tired  this  morning, 
broken  by  a  fatigue  that  seemed  physical,  for  every  limb 
was  aching.  So  since  circumstances,  consisting  of  the 
lady's-maid  and  his  aunt  at  second  hand,  had  encouraged 
him  to  be  lazy,  he  was  so,  and  dressing  had  been  inter- 
spersed with  various  things,  including  a  little  eating,  and 
the  slow  unpacking  and  sorting  of  kis   store  of   papers. 


THE   CRITIC  345 

Then,  the  room  he  was  in  being  admirably  adapted  for 
everything  except  writing,  and  with  no  convenient  hiding- 
places  except  cupboards,  which  he  dared  not  unlock — he 
had  laid  the  majority  of  his  properties  in  piles  about  the 
floor ;  with  the  exception  of  those  papers  which  immediately 
engaged  his  attention,  which  were  naturally  strewn  upon 
the  only  solid  table  in  the  room,  denuded  summarily  of  its 
looking-glass,  which  he  did  not  require.  Madame's  maid, 
an  old  ally  of  Antoine's,  treated  these  arrangements  of  his 
very  politely  when  she  came,  made  no  comments  except  to 
call  his  attention  to  the  cup  she  laid  beside  him,  and  stepped 
1  about  the  encumbered  floor  with  equal  grace  and  attention. 
Yvonne  was  always  satisfactory,  and  there  was  no  occasion 
to  crawl  half  on  to  the  table,  and  glare  mistrustfully  at  her 
among  unkempt  locks,  which  was  the  distinguished  guest's 
immediate  proceeding  when  her  master  entered. 

M.  Lemaure,  however,  did  not  ask  what  he  was  doing, 
his  mind  was  too  full  of  Jacques.  The  concert  being  well 
and  safely  over,  and  his  vigil  in  town  unrewarded,  Lucien 
had  decided  that  a  little  plain-speaking  on  the  subject  of 
the  common  loss  would  not  come  amiss.  His  brother-in- 
law  was  doubtless  doing  wonders,  the  police  both  sides 
were  on  the  alert,  but  nothing  had  yet  been  heard  of  the 
three  chief  actors  in  the  silent  drama ;  and  the  more  Lucien 
turned  matters  over  in  his  ingenious  brain,  the  more  he  saw 
who  might  probably  hold  the  clue.  He  put  things  strongly 
to  his  pupil  as  usual,  and  Antoine  did  him  the  honour  of 
answering  in  a  like  vein.  In  the  matter  of  free  discussion, 
they  had  had  some  practice ;  so  that  it  was  hardly  surpris- 
ing that  the  mistress  of  the  house,  when  she  arrived  on  the 
scene  towards  midday,  should  remark  that  they  were  quar- 
relling as  usual. 

They  both  stopped  to  look  at  her  as  she  came  in,  and 
Antoine's  eloquence,  at  any  rate,  seemed  frozen.  His  back 
was  against  the  wall,  metaphorically  speaking,  and  he  was 
not  at  all  in  a  state  of  mind  or  body  to  welcome  such  an 
exquisite  little  figure  as  she  presented.    Yvonne,  the  maid, 


346  SUCCESSION 

had  been  tolerable,  his  uncle  more  than  a  little  out  of  place, 
but  as  for  his  aunt,  Antoine's  keen  sense  of  the  appropriate 
cast  her  out.  He  felt  rough  and  violent,  inclined  to  those 
moods  of  Duchatel's  music  to  which  his  grandfather  so 
objected.  Madame's  perfect  finish,  her  dark  blue  silk  and 
falling  lace,  were  not  at  all  suitable  to  the  scene ;  and  well 
knowing  how  she  detested  disorder,  personal  or  mental,  the 
boy  shrank  under  her  leisured  inspection. 

But  behold,  instead  of  scolding  him,  Cecile  turned  on  her 
husband.  "Well,  have  you  worried  him  sufficiently?"  she 
inquired.  "  Because,  if  so,  I  am  now  ready  to  take  my 
turn.  It  is  nearly  time  for  dejeiiner,  and  he  has  not  even 
had  the  leisure  to  put  his  clothes  on." 

Lucien  looked  surprised  a  little.  "  He  will  not  give  me 
this  fellow's  address,"  he  said,  "  though  he  must  see  it  will 
come  to  that  in  the  end.  Every  moment  saved  is  naturally 
of  value  to  the  police.  I  keep  repeating  to  him,  if  the  man 
is  innocent  of  the  theft,  as  he  asserts,  he  need  not  fear  the 
disclosure.     If  he  is  not,  we  surely  have  the  right " 

"  How  long,"  interrupted  Madame,  "  has  he  been  speak-  i 
ing  in  that  tone?"     She  had  an  air  of  easy  interest,  and 
addressed  Antoine.    "  Talk  of  rights,  mon  Dieu!    I  ask  you, 
whose  is  the  violin  ?  "  | 

Her  tone,  snow-soft  as  it  was,  seemed  to  scatter  icy  water  ■ 
on  the  atmosphere  of  warfare  in  the  room.  Her  husband  ; 
was  yet  more  surprised,  though  protesting. 

"  You  do  not  understand,  Cecile,"  he  said.     "  Antoine's 
views,  as  to  the  functions  of  the  police,  are  elementary.  He 
thinks  they  can  find  the  thing — like  a  dog,  apparently — with  ' 
nothing  to  go  upon  but  the  scent  of  the  leather,  and  the  ' 
extremely  sketchy  description  he  chooses  to  provide.   While 
the  merest  common-sense  indicates  this  individual  as " 

"Juste  ciel,"  said  Madame,  "what  a  fuss!  It  is  hard 
you  should  be  asked  to  bear  this,  darling,  as  well  as  the  loss 
of  your  property.  Listen,  Lucien :  if  this  individual — 
whose  name  one  is  not  polite  enough  to  supply — is  innocent, 
and  wishes  to  assist  Antoine,  as  will  be  natural  on  seeing 


THE    CRITIC  347 

the  newspapers,  he  will  himself  communicate.  He  has  no 
need  of  half-a-dozen  agents,  whose  stupidity  is  proverbial, 
arriving  on  his  premises  to  prove  a  thing  he  has  not  taken 
is  not  there." 

"And  if  the  nameless  one  has  taken  it?"  said  Lucien. 
"  Is  it  permitted  to  suppose  that,"  said  Madame,  "  when 
we  are  so  soon  to  meet  one  of  his  friends  at  lunch?  " 

"Whom?"  said  Lucien  sharply.  "  Bah,  Cecile,  you  are 
ridiculous."  But  her  light  touch  on  the  boy  seemed  to  re- 
mind him  of  something,  and  he  rose  uncertainly. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Madame.    "  Now,  I  can  see  various  im- 
provements possible  in  this  room." 
"  I  should  think  so,"  Lucien  growled. 
"  And  your  absence  is  the  first  of  them."     His  wife's 
glance  on  him  was  quite  friendly,  but  so  expressive  that 
after  another  pause  of  protest  he  turned  about  and  went. 
Antoine  instantly   slid  back  into  what  she  supposed  had 
been  his  original  position  on  the  chair  before  the  littered 
table.    So  far  his  aunt's  behaviour  had  been  admirable,  and 
he  quite  hoped  the  removal  of  herself  would  follow  in  its 
natural  course.     But  the  hopes  were  disappointed,  for  she 
proceeded  to  glide  about  his  room,  engaged  in  the  bestowal 
of  his  possessions  in  their  proper  drawers.     She  stepped 
,  as  daintily  as  Yvonne,  and  was  even  more  rapid  and  noise- 
less, her  silk  skirts  making  barely  a  whisper  as  she  moved ; 
but  even  so,  Antoine  was  only  just  able  to  bear  her,  even 
among  his  less  valued  effects.     Luckily  these  seemed  to 
:  interest  her  most,  and  Antoine,  had  he  had  leisure,  would 
i  have  been  grateful   to  his   shirts  and   socks,   over  which 
'■■  Madame  stopped  in  absent  brooding  at  intervals.     She  was 
charming  in  the  pose  of  contemplation,  but  he  could  not 
afford  her  even  his  usual  aesthetic  approval. 

"  I  want  those,"  he  snapped  once,  as  she  stooped  to  gather 
up  some  torn  sheets,  covered  with  unseemly  scrawls. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  destroying,  dearest,"  she  said 
smoothly,     "  I  wish  you  would  go  back  to  bed."     For  he 


348  SUCCESSION 

was  still  hanging  over  the  table,  a  pencil  swinging  in  his 
fingers. 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  got  up."  Antoine  was  rather  disturbed. 
"  It  is  only  a  collar,  and  those  things."  He  lifted  a  hand 
to  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"  Does  that  hurt  you,"  she  asked  at  once. 

"  Only  a  little."  He  withdrew  the  hand,  "  No,  I  do  not 
think  that  is  hurting."  He  sighed  and  looked  at  her,  unable 
to  bid  her  go.  "  Those  things  in  the  box  you  can  throw 
away,"  he  said,  as  though  to  appease  her  taste  for  destroy- 
ing. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Madame.  "  This,  for  instance."  She 
withdrew  from  the  rubbish  a  photograph,  signed  and 
stamped  with  gold. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Antoine,  rather  shocked.  "  That  is  the 
king's,  he  sent  me  once.    I  had  forgotten  it  was  there." 

"  We  will  frame  it,"  said  Madame,  examining  the  trophy. 
"  I  will  give  you  a  silver  frame,  then  it  will  have  less 
chance  to  get  among  the  waste  paper.  This  is  a  beautiful 
Bossuet — is  that  also  a  presentation  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  Grandpapa  gave  me  that  when  I  was  ten. 
That  is  the  croquis  of  Philippe,"  he  added  hurriedly,  as  she 
picked  up  a  little  canvas,  quite  new,  carelessly  wrapped, 
and  smelling  fearfully  of  oil. 

"  But  it  is  charming !  "  exclaimed  Philip's  aunt,  dropping 
the  king's  portrait  incontinently. 

"  You  can  have  it  if  you  like,"  said  Antoine.  Now 
surely  he  must  have  satisfied  her,  his  tone  suggested.  Ce- 
cile  glanced  at  him  swiftly;  tones  afifected  her  when  she 
was  interested,  and  the  boy,  *'  rough  "  as  he  was,  inter- 
ested her  deeply  to-day. 

"  Jespersen  did  it,"  he  proceeded  to  explain.  "  He  is 
always  painting  him.  I  liked  that  one,  so  he  gave  it  me 
when  I  went  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Paiement  provisoire,"  read  Madame,  still  studying  the 
sketch.     "What  does  that  mean?" 

"  That  was  a  joke,"  said  Antoine.     "  I  played  to  them 


THE   CRITIC  349 

once;  and  now  when  I  go  there  they  say  every  time  they 
have  not  paid  me.  They  are  all  rather  silly,  those  Rats,  but 
I  think  Jespersen  is  a  clever  painter." 

Madame  did  not  dissent.  She  laid  the  portrait  on  the 
chimneypiece  after  an  interval,  and  took  to  the  clothes 
again.  A  period  of  great  calm  ensued,  and  Antoine  nearly 
forgot  her.  She  had  all  his  belongings  nicely  concealed  in 
what  w^ere  doubtless  the  correct  places,  when  the  lunch- 
bell  shattered  the  studious  peace  of  the  room. 

"  You  shall  have  it  here,"  she  said,  as  the  boy  started 
violently  and  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  mind  ? "  He  was  quite  taken  aback  by 
such  prompt  accommodation. 

"  We  will  bear  it,"  smiled  Madame.  "  You  will  have  no 
need  of  a  collar  in  your  own  company,  nor  of  a  comb 
either." 

The  boy  put  his  hand  to  his  hair.  His  eyes  roamed  the 
room,  perhaps  in  search  of  a  mirror. 

"  Under  the  table,"  said  his  aunt's  soft  tone.  "  Never 
mind,  dearest,  leave  it  to  me." 

She  brought  a  comb  to  his  side  while  he  read,  and  parted 
his  hair  for  him,  manipulating  the  long  front  lock  with  a 
clever  jerk  across  his  brow,  in  the  fashion  the  family  ap- 
proved. Antoine  pushed  it  back  at  once  with  an  absent 
hand. 

"  No,  mechant.  That  is  how  you  spoil  yourself,"  she 
reproved  him.  "  In  three  photographs  at  least  it  stands  on 
end  like  that,  and  think  of  my  feelings." 

"  How  your  feelings  ?  "  said  Antoine,  rather  shy  at  her 
proximity.  The  faint  smell  that  clung  to  her  robes  was 
agreeable,  different  from  that  which  pervaded  Madame 
Bertrand's  in  Paris.  Without  looking,  he  sniffed  it  fur- 
tively. 

"  I  am  responsible,"  she  said.  "  Are  you  aware  that  you 
are  still  my  pensionnaire,  in  spite  of  all  your  wanderings? 
I  answer  for  your  clothes  and  general  demeanour,  which 
are  now  a  public  question;  and  you  are  disgracefully  care- 


350  SUCCESSION 

less  of  both.  You  will  have  to  come  to  London— yes,  give 
a  whole  day  to  it — and  be  properly  dressed." 

"  My  collar  is  there,"  said  Antoine,  in  case  she  should 
imagine  he  was  permanently  in  want  of  one.  Madame  con- 
cluded her  lecture. 

"  But  it  is  no  good  my  providing  you  with  nice  clothes, 
if  you  do  not  respect  yourself." 

He  gazed  sidelong,  as  if  he  quite  wished  to  attend  to  her, 
but  was  listening  perforce  to  something  else.  "  Am  I 
dirty  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Very,"  said  his  aunt,  unmoved.  "  Here,  beneath  the 
eyes.  No,  you  can  do  nothing,  it  is  not  your  fault.  They 
were  as  black  at  the  concert  probably.  Did  nobody  remark 
it?" 

He  shook  his  head,  perfectly  at  sea,  and  soon  she  left 
him. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  her  husband's  question  at 
lunch-time.     "  Monsieur  our  guest  does  not  descend." 

"  Is  he  still  out  of  temper?  "  said  Lucien. 

Madame  shrugged.  "  As  you  will.  He  is  not  inclined 
for  us,  and  made  it  evident.  I  was  unwise  perhaps  to  let 
you  precede  me." 

"  Pish,"  said  Lucien.  "  You  should  have  brought  him 
down.  Savigny  says,  especially  when  he  is  nervous,  we 
are  to  treat  him  as  usual." 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  of  Savigny,  for  heaven's  sake,"  said 
Madame,  flicking  a  letter  on  the  cloth.  "  I  have  that  scrawl 
from  him  in  return  for  the  best  I  could  compose.  Men 
grow  impossible  who  live  like  that,  with  nothing  to  worship 
but  their  own  ideas.  For  a  person  who  was  once  worth 
something,  it  is  pathetic." 

Lucien  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  took  up  the  letter  sheet, 
which  had  strayed  in  his  direction.  It  was  quite  short; 
in  the  course  of  perusing  it,  he  pished  once  and  laughed 
twice. 

"Just  so,"  said  Madame.     "He  can   afford  to  amuse 


THE    CRITIC  351 

himself  over  Antoine,  it  appears.  Well,  such  results  of  my 
best  efforts  would  not  amuse  me." 

"  You  find  him  changed  ?  "  said  Lucien,  who  needed  her 
opinion,  in  order  to  test  his  own.  They  had  neither  of  them 
seen  the  boy  since  the  short  holiday  at  St  Aviel  in  June. 

"Changed?  It  is  incredible.  Anxious,  thin,  enerve — 
tired  of  life,  he  looks  at  moments.  And  he  has  learnt  self- 
control,"  Cecile  finished,  with  resentment. 

"  An  admirable  quality,"  Lucien  began. 

"  Respectable,"  she  cut  in.  "  It  is  never  admirable,  least 
of  all  at  that  age." 

"  It  is  the  root  of  Raymond's  regime,"  said  Lucien. 

"  Humph,"  said  his  wife,  leaning  back.  "  I  remember 
occasions  when  his  own  was  inconspicuous.  As  a  young 
man,  he  was  intemperate.  '  Don't  talk  to  me,'  I  said  to 
Maman,  the  very  first  time  she  showed  me  to  him.  *  That 
is  a  very  unstable  genius.  One  day  it  will  overbalance 
him.'  " 

"  How  old  were  you,"  said  Lucien,  "  when  you  uttered 
that  ?  " 

"  Fifteen,"  said  Cecile,  with  serenity.  "  One  is  down- 
right at  fifteen,  possibly — inclined  to  severe  judgments. 
Certainly  Savigny's  treatment  did  me  good.  At  a  given 
moment,  Maman  thought  she  had  triumphed,  merely  be- 
cause I  admitted  it.  He  interrogated  pie  with  singular  in- 
sight, I  remember." 

"  You  mean,"  said  Lucien,  "  he  had  the  singular  insight 
to  interrogate  you,  and  Maman  sat  aside." 

"  Frowning,"  she  assented.  "  IMaman  often  thought  me 
forward  in  those  days,  when  I  was  merely  curious.  Sa- 
vigny  is  certainly  interesting." 

"  You  admit  it,"  said  Lucien. 

"  Freely.  But  it  was  absurd.  How  could  I  flirt  with 
him,  in  any  case?    I  knew  he  was  in  love  with  Henriette." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  her  husband  ejaculated.  "  Your  dates 
must  be  out,  ma  petite.  At  the  time  you  speak  of,  Hen- 
riette was  in  the  nursery." 


352  SUCCESSION 


"  Not  at  all — I  was  the  younger.  Henriette  turned 
sixteen  that  year.  Raymond  Savigny  was  hopelessly  epris 
since  her  first  Communion.  I  should  know,  being  her 
friend." 

"  You  mean  my  sister  told  you,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 
"That  does  not " 

"  I  mean  he  told  me  so,"  Cecile  interrupted,  "  every  time 
he  entered  the  room  where  she  was.  Oh,  I  was  not  a  fool 
at  fifteen,  though  I  looked  it,  owing  to  chere  Maman's  pro- 
ceedings." 

"  Did  she  try  to  restrict  you,  at  that  advanced  age?" 

"  She  was  perfectly  tactful,"  declared  Cecile.  "  You 
know,  I  admire  Maman  immensely.  But  she  dragged  me 
persistently  round  the  doctors  through  those  years,  and  one 
does  look  foolish  in  such  circumstances,  I  told  Savigny 
I  had  seen  too  many  doctors.  *  One  too  many,'  he  sug- 
gested. '  Five  before  you,'  I  said,  for  I  was  an  accurate 
girl.  Maman  fumed  in  the  background — it  is  true,  his  smile 
is  particularly  agreeable.  I  could  manage  him  now,"  pon- 
dered Madame,  "  if  I  could  get  at  him." 

While  she  pondered,  Lucien  read  the  letter  again.  "  Ray- 
mond wears  the  mask,"  he  said,  laying  it  down.  "  My 
father  said,  in  Munich  he  was  extremely  anxious  about  the 
boy.  Even  after  his  return,  he  agreed  to  a  consultation 
with  Weber,  which,  for  him,  is  remarkable." 

"  Gervais  Weber?"  inquired  Madame,  who  knew  most 
of  the  Paris  doctors.  "  I  wish  I  had  written  to  him  instead. 
He  knows  how  to  treat  a  woman."  She  still  gazed  at 
Savigny's  scrawl  resentfully.  "  I  could  almost  wish  Hen- 
riette had  married  him,"  she  muttered. 

"Are  you  not  too  severe?"  said  Lucien. 

Their  eyes  met  a  moment.  Henriette  had  set  her  mark 
deep  on  her  family,  and  Cecile,  arrant  critic  as  she  was, 
always  trod  round  the  subject  daintily.  Not  that  Lucien 
ever  repulsed  the  truth,  especially  when  supplied  by  her. 
He  had  the  general  taste  for  free  dealing  she  approved, 
which  made  the  quality  of  their  companionship.     But  his 


1 


THE   CRITIC  353 

reserve  she  appreciated  equally;  for  like  his  father's,  it 
was  less  the  reserve  of  exaggerated  sensibility  than  of  fine 
taste;    and  only  the  temptation  to  humour  broke  it  down. 

"  It  is  odd,"  she  observed,  still  leaning  back  and  watch- 
ing him,  "  how  I  had  a  possession  of  Hcnrictte  yesterday, 
before  the  boy's  arrival,  and  later.  I  thought  of  her  half 
the  night." 

"  Apropos  of  him  ?    There  is  not  the  least  resemblance." 

"  I  never  thought  so :   that  is  the  point." 

"How  the  point,  my  dear?" 

"  She  must,  you  see,  have  affected  him.  She  was  very 
influential,  Henriette — that  you  admit  ?  "  He  half  nodded, 
smiling.  "Unfortunately,  hein?  She  influenced  me.  It 
amazed  Maman  that  I,  for  instance,  clung  to  her  so  per- 
sistently. I  was  a  delicate  girl,"  said  Madame,  fingering 
the  doctor's  letter,  "  hampered  at  all  points.  My  youth 
was  ratee,  Lucien,  really.  We  had  an  interesting  society, 
but  I  missed  every  occasion  of  note — simply,  I  believe,  by 
desiring  it  too  much.  Henriette  went  everywhere,  since  she 
manipulated  her  father.  I  might  have  been  jealous,  with 
reason,  of  her  advantages.  She  boasted  of  them,  pitied 
me,  told  me  all  her  '  affairs,'  wore  me  out  with  her  emo- 
tions. She  was  generally  good-humoured,  healthy,  witty 
in  her  way — she  was  radiantly  successful.  Heavens,  how 
I  admired  her,  and  do !  " 

"  You  admire  success,"  said  Lucien,  gazing  at  her  oddly. 

"  You  observe,"  she  retorted,  "  how  I  welcome  it  to  the 
house.  Success  is  defiance,  in  essence.  It  is  defiance  that 
I  adore." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  said.  "  My  sister  was  defiant,  is  that 
what  you  meant  ?  " 

"  Defiant?  Grand  Dieu,  she  had  nothing  to  defy.  Every- 
thing in  life  was  for  her,  as  I  said.  For  those  who  watched 
over  her,  she  barely  had  a  fault." 

"  She  had  a  temper,"  said  Lucien,  with  the  tolerant  judg- 
ment of  an  elder  brother. 

"  She  was  a  fiend,"  said  Madame,  "  on  occasion.    I  learnt 


354  SUCCESSION 

it  the  only  time  I  ever  entered  into  rivalry.  She  had  no 
pity  for  weakness,  and  hated  it.  She  had  just  enough 
nerves  herself  to  know  how  to  rally  them  in  others ;  and 
once  her  jealousy  aroused  she  was  merciless." 

"  Psst !  "  said  Lucien.    "  This  is  a  woman's  attack." 

"  You  know  well  it  is  not.  You  Lemaures,  who  are  one 
and  all  slaves  to  beauty,  shut  your  eyes  and  let  her  trample 
willingly.  But  what  of  her  children?"  Her  little  palm 
dropped  on  the  table.  "  What  if  she  were  alive  now  ?  Have 
you  thought  of  it  ?  " 

Lucien  smiled,  caught  evidently  by  a  new  idea.  "  She 
would  be  proud,"  he  began. 

"  Bon,"  cried  Madame.  "  That  is  the  commonplace. 
Did  you  ever  discover  what  this  little  one  thought  of  his 
mother?  " 

"  He  was  a  baby,"  said  Monsieur. 

"And  is  now,  is  he  not?    What  are  fifteen  years?" 

"  I  do  not  follow,  my  child." 

"  Only,  to  be  now  where  he  is,  one  may  well  have  mis- 
judged his  cleverness  throughout.  He  talks  of  everything, 
Antoine.    Have  you  ever  heard  him  talk  of  her?" 

"  He  would  not,  to  my  father,"  said  Lucien.  "  Nor  to 
me." 

"  Why  should  he  not,  if  he  regarded  her  in  your  man- 
ner? It  is  the  simple  proof.  Have  you  ever  watched  him 
when  there  was  talk  of  her — I  have  done  that.  Philippe 
shrinks  and  changes  colour.  He  is  blank  singularly — a 
mask." 

"  She  neglected  him  for  Philip,  possibly,"  said  Lucien. 

"  If  I  could  think  it  was  neglect,"  said  Madame,  "  but  I 
remember  her  too  well.  A  girl  she  might  have  neglected. 
You  never  heard  her  teach  him  ?  " 

"  Thank  heaven  no,"  he  said,  with  emphasis.  "  That  her 
teaching  was  teasing,  I  well  believe.  How  he  made  what 
he  did  of  it,  is  remarkable." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  said  Madame,  "  I  believe  she  taught 
him  a  good  deal.    He  has  been  afraid  of  women  ever  since." 


THE   CRITIC  355 

Lucien  laughed  out.  "  Six  years  old,"  he  protested,  eying 
her.  "  Reckon  a  little  for  age,  my  child.  One's  mother,  at 
six  years  old,  is  not  a  woman." 

"  Henriette  was  a  woman,  always.  She  was  your  sister : 
did  she  ever  let  you  forget  it  ?  " 

He  still  smiled ;  but  the  quality  of  the  smile,  which  had 
been  grim,  changed  under  her  eyes. 

"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  like  your  father.  I 
like  you  when  you  look  like  that."  She  rose  and  joined 
him,  for  he  had  turned  from  the  table  suddenly,  and  caught 
up  a  newspaper  to  read  upon  the  hearth.  "  I  profit  by  a 
weakness  I  admire,"  she  murmured,  as  she  slipped  within 
his  arm.    "  Have  I  been  teasing  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  he.  "  But  beware  of  theories  a  la  Sa- 
vigny.  I  doubt  myself  if  all  you  could  sweep  up  of  history 
or  inheritance  would  account  completely  for  any  child, 
least  of  all  for  this." 

"  You  think  Antoine  exceptional  ?  "  she  said,  accenting 
the  pronoun.    "  You  must  have  had  a  good  many." 

"  IVe  have  had  plenty,"  laughed  Lucien,  "  but  none  like 
him.  Leave  it  now  and  let  me  read."  He  read  for  a  time 
and  she  looked  over.  He  would  have  turned  past  the  con- 
cert article,  which  he  had  seen,  but  she  held  his  hand. 

"  He  continues  to  write,  it  seems,"  she  said  quietly,  when 
she  had  read  the  little  paragraph,  referring  to  the  subject 
of  it  without  further  definition. 

"  You  saw,"  said  her  husband  shortly.  "  I  never  ask  him 
now,  and  my  father  seems  to  have  lost  his  curiosity.  That 
is  not,  so  to  speak,  our  concern.  He  may  amuse  himself 
as  he  will,  now  his  career  is  chosen." 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "Who  chose  it?" 

"The  career?  He  did  himself.  You  have  not  already 
forgotten  Jem's  eloquence  that  night?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Madame,  but  her  brows  were  in  motion. 
Theories  were  working  in  her,  and  would  surely  in  time 
find  an  outlet.  "  Jem  is  charming,"  she  said,  "  but  his 
knowledge  would  be  partial — special,  let  us  say.     Savigny 


356  SUCCESSION 

there  has  special  knowledge  also — so  have  you,  a  lot  of 
clever  people.  I  pick  a  little  from  each  " — she  laughed  up 
at  him — "  that  is  the  critic's  privilege ;  only  I  have  my  uses, 
Lucien.  No,  be  serious.  See,  v^hat  I  mean  is,  the  boy 
might  be  impatient  of  the  crew  of  us  sometimes,  might  he 
not? — oh,  his  eyes  were  insolent  to-day.  But  it  is  per- 
mitted." 

"All  this  brain-searching,"  Lucien  exclaimed,  "to  ac- 
count for  an  imp's  fit  of  sulkiness!  It  is  not  permitted, 
my  dear,  for  Antoine  to  be  insolent  to  you." 

"  But  I  like  it !  It  amuses  me,  I  assure  you,  to  account 
for  things.  It  is  my  daily  occupation.  Faute  de  mieux,  I 
analyse  you.  Have  you  never  remarked  my  earnest  atten- 
tion, when  you  were  in  a  fury  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  escaped  me,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 

"  I  trust  it  will  escape  Antoine  also,  for  I  intend  him  to 
suffer  it.  Voyons,  I  arranged  his  hair  for  him  just  lately, 
and  Philippe  would  have  been  most  interested.  The  child 
looked  at  me  through  it — insolent  is  the  word.  Mon  Dieu ! 
if  he  ever  looked  like  that  at  his  mother "  Her  move- 
ment was  expressive. 

"  I  do  not  think  she  was  rough  with  them,"  said  Lucien, 
reading. 

"  Not  unbecomingly,"  said  Madame.  "  No  more  than  a 
cat  is  rough.  The  gesture  would  have  been  graceful,  but 
effective.  You  are  all  so  effective,  you  Lemaures.  Lu- 
cien ! "  She  seized  his  arm  suddenly  and  the  newspaper  as 
well.  "  I  will  not  tease,  if  you  treat  me  seriously.  I  am 
quite  clever,  though  ignorant  of  course.  Why  should  he 
play  at  all,  if  he  can  write?  " 

"You  ask?     I  thought  you  loved  success." 

"  Serious,"  she  adjured  him.  "  What  is  his  writing 
worth?" 

"  Ask  Duchatel,"  said  Lucien.  "  I  believe  he  is  con- 
stituted judge." 

"  Good,"  said  Cecile,  her  brow  fixed.    "  You  are  jealous 


THE   CRITIC  357 

now  of  little  Duchatel.  Well,  I  tell  you  I  can  only  take  the 
superficial  view.    That  is  why  I  apply  for  information." 

*'  Antoine  is  so  young,"  was  Lucien's  reply  to  this.  He 
still  grasped  his  paper  as  defence. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  that,"  said  she.  "  It  is  so  convenient, 
hein?  He  can  be  too  old,  or  too  young,  as  required,  for 
some  years  to  come." 

Lucien  was  engaged  on  a  Parliamentary  report,  ap- 
parently. His  face  was  set,  and  Cecile's  courage,  high  as 
it  was,  began  to  fail.  On  some  points  he  was  singularly- 
obstinate. 

"  You  consider,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  appeal,  "  that 
he  is  better  engaged  at  present  in  interpreting  the  ideas  of 
others,  rather  than  his  own.  He  can  have  none  of  his  own, 
possibly.  Enlighten  me,  dearest,  will  you  not?  Is  that 
absolutely  all,  that  he  is  so  young?" 

"  And  my  father  so  old,"  said  Lucien.  "  The  boy  knows 
it  very  well.  He  is  learning  self-control,  as  you  say;  and 
he  is  capable  of  doing  quietly  what  is  expected  of  him, 
even  if  it  should  not  be  invariably  thrilling.    It  is  his  work." 

Lucien's  enunciation  of  this  word  was  characteristic. 
His  own  work  had  rarely  been  thrilling,  and  was  invariably 
well  done,  which  gave  him  some  right  to  use  it.  It  meant 
much  on  his  lips. 

"  I  see,"  said  Madame.  "  Savigny  speaks  of  the  ivork 
as  well."  Her  delicate  face  twisted  slightly  as  she  quoted 
him.  "  It  is  prescribed,  then,  by  the  three  legislators  who 
direct  him — and  by  your  father  over  all.  After  his 
death " 

Lucien  raised  his  hand;    and  at  that  gesture,  sensitive, 

j  barely  conscious  as   it  was,  the  free  discussion   suddenly 

failed.     Cecile,   feeling  her  way,  had  reached  the  wifely 

limit,  but  she  saw  from  that  point  as  he  saw,  accurately 

and  sympathetically,  and  had  no  need  of  more. 

"  How,"  she  took  to  wondering  instead,  "  will  Lucien 
ever  support  his  father's  loss?  He  has  lived  deliberately 
in  him  and  his  ideas,  his  whole  life  long." 


358  SUCCESSION 

Antoine  had  plenty  to  do,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
Madame  had  an  opportunity  of  testing  any  of  her  theories 
upon  him ;  but  in  the  interval,  he  continued  to  amuse  her. 
She  could  not  imagine  how  she  had  never  discovered  his 
companionable  qualities  before ;  for,  as  soon  as  she  turned 
her  tact  seriously  upon  the  task,  she  easily  circumvented 
his  timidity.  He  was  very  kind  to  her,  she  told  Lucien, 
and  she  quite  hoped  in  time  to  awaken  his  interest.  Her 
reports  on  her  progress  in  the  acquaintanceship  entertained 
M.  Lemaure,  who  found  himself  unable  in  the  long  run  to 
take  his  nephew's  new  standing  very  seriously ;  and  who, 
between  periods  of  necessary  complacent  calm  in  public, 
rated  and  managed  him  at  home  as  it  had  always  been  his 
wont  to  do. 

"  His  mind,"  Cecile  informed  him,  "  is  more  mature  than 
his  brother's  was  at  eighteen.  One  can  speak  with  him 
quite  unguardedly,  so  long  as  one  puts  it  so  as  not  to  startle 
his  little  nerves.  He  dislikes  satire,  but  his  appreciation  of 
a  good  point  is  sure.  I  am  learning  his  language  by 
degrees.  I  may  say,  I  realise  at  last  in  him  the  art  about 
which  you  others  are  always  chattering." 

Lucien  let  her  go  her  way,  glad  that  she  had  found  a 
new  amusement.  He  was  distracted  by  many  things,  in- 
cluding his  own  work  in  town,  the  reports  on  his  father's 
health,  ever  less  reassuring  as  the  season  advanced,  and  the 
quest  for  the  missing  violin,  which,  despite  their  most  in- 
genious efforts,  came  to  naught.  Antoine,  after  the  first 
day,  avoided  all  debates,  and  showed  a  kind  of  fatalistic 
languor  in  the  matter  of  his  loss.  He  played  finely  as  ever 
to  crowded  rooms  on  the  violin  the  black  lady  had  given 
him ;  and,  from  the  few  true  friends  who  knew  the  dif- 
ference, received  commiseration  with  a  little  gesture,  sug- 
gesting self-disdain.  Nothing,  certainly,  could  have  been 
simpler  or  less  sentimental  than  his  demeanour,  and  so  far 
as  that  went,  his  guardian  was  content. 

His  refusal  remained  stubborn  to  discuss  Jacques  with 
anyone;   buj  his  uncle  flattered  himself  that  he  pondered 


THE   CRITIC  359 

a  good  deal  in  private,  and  had  come  round  secretly  to  their 
opinion.  His  repentance,  Liicien  would  fain  have  pointed 
out,  arrived  too  late,  for  Charretteur  had  extinguished  him- 
self completely,  and  was  no  longer  heard  of  in  professional 
or  private  circles.  The  hotel  in  Amiens  had  been  able  to 
give  no  news  of  him.  Ribiera,  the  favourite  of  queens, 
tried  another  gentleman  in  his  place,  discarded  this  person 
with  contumely,  and  took  to  playing  alone.  It  might  have 
been  the  gilded  Spaniard  regretted  Jacques  when  he  had 
lost  him,  or  perchance  his  temper  was  growing  spoiled  by 
success.  He  lingered  in  Paris  to  the  verge  of  his  English 
season,  and  his  more  than  royal  airs  amused  that  light- 
hearted  public.  Antoine  was  given  to  understand,  by 
Victor's  caustic  pen,  that  the  etceteras,  finding  themselves 
temporarily  desocuvrees,  had  suddenly  discovered  Ribiera, 
whose  fame  for  three  years  past  had  filled  three  other 
capitals ;  and  that  as  his  profile  was  much  admired,  they 
were  likely  for  some  time  to  be  happily  occupied,  and  to 
leave  M.  Duchatel  in  peace. 

Antoine  found  that  his  aunt  was  interested  in  Duchatel, 
whom  she  had  known  as  a  youth  in  her  mother's  salon ; 
and  as  he  received  letters  regularly,  he  read  her  now  and 
then  the  scraps  of  gossip  attached  to  them,  being  convinced 
that  the  body  of  the  correspondence,  purely  medicinal  in 
:haracter,  could  not  amuse  her. 

*'  He  has  a  biting  tongue,  the  little  boy,"  said  Madame 
ndulgently.  Once,  she  inquired  about  the  rest  of  the  let- 
er,  over  which  she  found  the  boy  poring  with  a  bitten  lip. 
A^hat,  she  wondered  guilelessly,  could  it  be  about? 

"  Our  things,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Things  one  writes  ?  "  said  Madame  cheerfully. 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  about  his  own,"  said  Antoine. 

"  A  common  trait  of  criticism,"  said  Madame.  "  Does 
le  bite  himself,  dearest?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Antoine,  still  frowning. 

"  There  are  several  now  who  imitate  him,  I  suppose," 
aid  Madame,  sticking  her  needle  in  and  out  adroitly. 


36o  SUCCESSION 

"  There  are  some.  He  bites  them  more."  The  boy 
laughed. 

"  Aha !    And  what  of  those  who  do  not  follow  him  ?  " 

Antoine  shrugged  and  departed,  folding  the  sheet  in  his 
hand. 

"  You,  at  least,  do  not  flatter  him  in  that  way,"  his  aunt 
reflected  above  her  embroidery.  "  If  Victor  has  not 
changed,  no  two  minds  could  be  more  dissimilar." 

It  was  a  fact  that  Victor  had  the  air  of  being  at  least  as 
hard  on  himself  as  he  was  on  Antoine ;  but  then,  as  he  con- 
tinued to  publish  and  to  be  played,  the  case  was  slightly 
different.    He  was  a  severe  young  taskmaster,  skilled  in  all 
the  critic's  methods,  cutting  often  in  the  terms  he  used, 
above  all  when  he  used  them  on  paper;   and  he  preferred 
to  write,  despite  Antoine's  private  taste.     Throughout  the  ' 
year,  he  had  turned  the  boy's  hopes  back  scores  of  times. 
Antoine  differed  from  his  opinion  often,  whether  on  his 
own  work,  Victor's,  or  that  of  other  people ;   but  he  never 
combated  his  verdict  as  to  technique,  since  he  had  himself  : 
fought  so  far  ahead  on  the  difficult  way.     The  boy  had  , 
torn  up  countless  things  he  valued,  which  had  been  secret  : 
joy  and  consolation  to  write ;  and  he  had  preserved  several  ! 
he  cared  for  less.     One  only — part  of  an  ambitious  mass  ' 
for   voices,   which   Victor   had   utterly   mocked    and   con- 
demned, he  had  kept  in  secret,  to  show  Fritz  Reuss  some 
day,  when  Victor's  cynical  French  eye  should  be  turned 
off  him,   and  he  had  made  his  own  path  sufficiently  to 
venture. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  work  down  here,  darling,"  said 
Madame,  one  of  the  days  in  early  December  her  husband  ■ 
was  in  London.     "  Your  room  is  so  cold." 

Antoine  had  come  down  to  lunch  rather  late,  for  it  must 
be  owned  that  he  took  every  advantage  of  the  license  he 
was  offered.     He  looked   strained,  as  often   in  the  early  | 
hours,  and  the  fingers  he  stretched  for  his  soup-plate  were  ' 
grey  and  stiff.     He  paused  to  put  it  down  before  he  an- 


THE    CRITIC  361 

swered.  "  I  shall  be  hot  after  lunch  again.  You  do  not 
want  a  noise  here." 

"  I  imagined  you  were  reading,"  said  Madame.  "  I  had 
heard  no  noise." 

"  No — there  wasn't  any,"  said  Antoine. 
"  Ought  there  to  have  been  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  from  nine  to  twelve.  It  is  a  day  to  play,  before  a 
concert." 

"  How  naughty  of  you,"  said  Madame,  in  tranquil  tones. 
"  Well,  if  you  continue  to  transgress,  why  not  do  it  here, 
that  is  what  I  mean.  I  shall  not  attend  to  you,  and  my 
needle  makes  little  noise." 

He  laughed,  and  waited  to  finish  the  soup  before  he  an- 
swered. "  It  is  not  the  noise,"  he  then  said,  pushing  his 
plate  away.  "  Margot  makes  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  the 
kitchen  at  home,  and  so  does  the  street.  Paris  is  a  noisy 
place,  but  I  do  not  mind  it." 

j  "  What  do  you  mind  then  ?  "  said  Cecile.  "  Curiosity  ? 
11  am  the  most  incurious  person  that  exists,  and  the 
laziest." 

He  laughed  again,  and  met  her  eyes  for  a  second.  His 
aunt  was  amusing,  and  she  had  been  extraordinarily  kind 
:o  him  of  late.  To-day  she  looked  pale,  and  he  knew  by 
he  note  of  her  voice  she  was  tired.  As  a  fact,  Cecile's 
'lesire  for  his  company  was  largely  to  escape  from  herself, 
for  her  health  made  her  subject  to  fits  of  depression,  which 
i'.ven  her  skilled  acting  could  not  always  disguise. 

After  lunch,  the  boy  brought  a  stack  of  books  into  her 

oom,  and  throwing  a  few  of  them  on  the  floor,  proceeded 

}D  interview  the  remainder  at  the  table  as  long  as  the  light 

jisted.     Cecile  worked  by  snatches,  tormented  herself  by 

rnitless  thinking  on  intimate  questions,  and  threw  him  a 

ilance  at  intervals.    She  could  see  him  as  it  happened  with- 

ut  efifort,  for  he  sat  at  an  angle  to  a  mirror.     He  at  least 

as  perfectly  unconscious  and  perfectly  comfortable,  and 

I  so  far  a  soothing  spectacle.     For  at  least  half  the  after- 

Don  he  did  nothing  at  all,  to  all  appearance,  but  sit  with 


362  SUCCESSION 

his  hands  driven  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  watch  the  fall- 
ing sleet.  His  brow  at  these  times  was  calm,  and  all  his 
habitual  little  nervous  movements  were  wanting.  But  it 
was  not  the  mere  idle  contemplation  of  a  handicraftsman 
out  of  work,  for  when  the  period  was  finished  he  passed 
without  a  pause  into  energetic  action;  using,  it  seemed  to 
her,  every  part  of  himself,  fingers,  ears,  eyes  and  brain. 
He  scribbled  vigorously,  tossed  paper  after  paper  to  the 
floor,  and  tore  up,  it  seemed,  as  many  as  he  wrote.  Then  he 
subsided  anew,  regarding  the  mass  at  his  side  not  at  all, 
and  the  snow  with  concentrated  interest.  Then  he  picked 
up  some  sheets  from  the  sheaf  with  the  swing  of  an  ap- 
parently careless  hand,  and  chose  one  or  two  details  to  cor- 
rect minutely.  One  gave  him  immense  trouble,  and  he 
regarded  it  for  some  time  sidelong,  with  a  look  of  absent 
disgust.  Then  he  had  an  amusing  idea,  which  dawned 
slowly,  perfectly  visible  to  the  critic's  eye  in  the  mirror 
inclined  above  his  head.  It  was  not,  she  imagined,  a  quite 
permissible  idea,  possibly  audacious,  possibly  vulgar.  He 
interviewed  it  at  some  length,  his  face  changing;  and  dur- 
ing the  changes,  the  likeness  to  his  grandfather,  always 
hovering  just  over  his  brow,  descended  and  settled  finally. 
He  had  pushed  his  hair  back,  as  ever  in  distraction,  which 
added  to  the  impression.  Then  he  dismissed  the  intrusive 
idea,  and  set  to  work  anew,  gripping  his  tools.  He  fought 
a  losing  battle  with  the  fading  light,  sliding  ever  nearer  to 
the  window  where  the  inclement  night  was  oozing  through 
the  cracks.  He  wrote  long  after  Madame  thought  it  im- 
possible even  for  young  eyes  to  see,  his  head  bowed  on  the 
page;  but  though  disapproving,  she  still  said  nothing  to 
disturb  him.  Lastly,  he  abandoned  the  attempt  with  a 
gesture,  rose  with  decision,  and  came  to  her. 

"  It  is  dark,"  he  said,  snapping  his  stiff  fingers  before 
the  fire.    "  You  cannot  see." 

"  I  have  ceased  work  for  an  hour,"  said  Madame.  The 
pale  triangle  of  her  face  was  just  visible,  otherwise  she 
was  a  delicately  scented  shadow  along  the  velvet  couch. 


THE   CRITIC  363 

"  Shall  I  ask  Yvonne  for  the  lamp  ?  " 

*'  For  yourself,  dear,  if  you  wish.  For  me  there  is  no 
hurry — ever."  He  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  she  felt  she 
had  been  wrong  to  let  her  bitterness  escape  her.  "  I  spend 
the  time  in  observation,"  she  said,  in  her  ordinary  pretty 
tone.  "  One  lives  and  learns.  I  never  yet  knew  it  was  pos- 
sible to  write  with  both  hands." 

''  You  saw  that  ?  "  He  was  surprised,  for  his  back  had 
been  towards  her.  "  With  a  wide  score,"  he  explained,  at 
leisure,  "tt  is  quicker  sometimes." 

"  Oh,"  said  Madame,  "  I  observed  the  object  also.  I 
might  have  invented  the  method  too,  had  I  ever  had  to 
write  vertically.  I  am  as  clever  as  you  by  nature,  very 
nearly." 

Again,  instead  of  assenting  or  smiling,  he  left  a  pause. 
"  I  think  everybody  writes  like  that,"  he  said,  after  the  in- 
terval. 

"  I  am  sure  nobody  does,"  answered  Madame.  "  It  is 
unheard  of  and  monstrous.  You  might  as  well  have  two 
heads." 

"  Do  not,"  he  muttered,  and  turning  from  her,  shook 
;iimself  angrily. 

'  "  Bad  acting,  and  he  saw  through  it,"  reflected  Cecile. 
,'  One  must  pay  attention,  with  these.  Darling,  will  you 
"ing?"  she  said,  resuming  her  soft  accent.  "  I  should  like 
;ome  tea.  It  is  better  than  jesting  in  the  bad  moments — 
IS  you  observe." 

When  the  lamp  came,  as  she  foresaw,  he  had  to  come 
loser.  He  brought  his  occupations  across  to  a  table  within 
ange  of  her,  bu-t  not  near.  Madame  did  not  intend  to  let 
lim  escape. 

"  Show  me  that,"  she  said  crisply,  as  he  passed  her.  He 
•aused,  and  then  advancing  to  her  side,  laid  one  sheet  be- 
ore  her. 

"  It  is  very  untidy,  hein?  "  he  said. 

"  You  treat  me  as  a  child,"  said  Madame.  "  Do  not  be 
uperior.    Tell  me  what  it  is." 


364  SUCCESSION 

He  told  her,  rather  shyly  at  first,  but  warming  rapidly  to 
the  description.  Cecile,  utterly  ignorant  as  she  was,  was 
interested  in  his  manner  of  building  the  thing,  and  none  of 
her  questions  lacked  intelligence. 

"  It  is  nice  of  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You  | 
are  nice — gentil — always.  See  now,  will  you  have  tea  with  j 
me  since  your  brother  or  my  husband  are  not  there  to  be  j 
sacrificed?"  j 

"  Oh  yes,  I  will,"  he  said  tamely.  "  Only  I  do  not  drink 
tea." 

Madame  cursed  Savigny  in  a  sweet  and  equable  tone, 
and  made  him  laugh.  He  tossed  the  paper  he  held  aside, 
and  going  to  the  tray  of  tea,  supplied  her  carefully  accord- 
ing to  direction.  Then,  as  though  he  was  playing  a  serious 
game,  he  fetched  a  cup,  containing  the  smallest  possible 
quantity  of  the  liquid,  and  guarding  it  carefully  between  his 
cold  hands,  sank  down  in  a  low  chair  at  her  side.  His  easy 
pose  suggested  that  he  offered  himself  to  society  a  willing 
sacrifice ;  and  Cecile,  suspecting  the  attraction  on  the  lighted 
table,  felt  flattered — precisely  as  M.  Lemaure's  deliberate 
attentions  had  been  wont  to  flatter  her  in  old  days. 

"  Amuse  me,"  she  said.  "  I  am  to  be  amused,  being 
miserable.    Talk  of  something." 

"What?" 

"  Anything — those  *  paperasses,'  if  you  will.  Who  else 
knows  about  it,  besides  me?  " 

"These? — only  Victor  Duchatel.  The  others  think  I 
write  some  little  things,  just  to  amuse  myself,  do  you  see? " 

"  But  this  is  your  real  work.    How  long  has  it  been?  " 

"  Always."    He  gripped  the  cup,  sitting  very  still. 

"  Ah — so  much  for  Lucien,"  his  wife  thought.  "  Then 
you  have  deceived  them,  dearest,"  she  pronounced  aloud. 

"  No,  never.     I  had  always  thought  of  that." 

"  You  certainly  deceived  your  father.  No  " — she  held 
up  a  hand — "  I  am  sure  of  what  I  say.  I  cannot  bear  to  be 
proved  wrong  to-night.  Drink  that  tea,  for  mercy's  sake, 
and  let  me  consider  the  situation." 


THE   CRITIC  365 

-     He  laughed,  and  drank  a  little. 

"  Your  mistake  is,"  his  aunt  decided,  after  an  impressive 
pause,  "  that  you  play  too  well.  It  seems  easy  to  correct 
it." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  soon,"  he  said  beneath  his  breath. 
Then,  as  she  shot  him  a  glance,  he  made  a  visible  effort  to 
throw  off  the  languor  attached  to  the  subject.  "  I  had  not 
thought  enough,  to  know  it  was  wrong,"  he  said.  "  Moricz 
knew — my  master  in  Paris  this  summer.  He  laughed  dur- 
ing the  lessons,  he  knew  so  well.  He  said,  it  was  natural 
grandpapa  should  make  the  mistake.  It  was  not  always 
very  nice,"  said  Antoine,  frowning,  "  the  way  Moricz  talked 
about  grandpapa." 

"  Herr  Moricz  let  you  see  that  opinion  ?  And  you  told 
nobody  ?  " 

He  frowned  still  more.  "  I  was  not  sure.  Moricz  said — 
it  would  do.  He  only  laughed  a  little  at  me.  But  he  said, 
wait  three  months ;  and  now,  after  three  months,  I  see  so 
very  well." 

"  You  have  had  bad  luck,"  said  Madame,  after  a  pause. 
"  First  to  be  ill,  and  then  the  violin.  You  have  lost  courage 
a  little." 

He  acquiesced.  "  It  is  not  a  good  season,  certainly.  It 
is— cold." 

"  Child !  "  she  exclaimed,  almost  in  reproach.  "  You 
have  so  many  friends.  Here  is  half  the  world  of  London 
requiring  you,  as  I  know  to  my  cost." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  still  tamely  acquiescent.  "  They 
like  it,  I  think." 

His  aunt  thereupon  tried  a  little  flattery,  of  fine  flavour, 
for  she  was  accomplished  in  the  art.  She  quoted  opinions 
she  had  read  and  heard.  Antoine  sat  listening,  his  eyes 
on  the  cup. 

"  I  wish  you  liked  it  yourself,"  he  said  fervently,  at  the 
end,  and  the  polite  aunt  was  reduced  to  laughter. 

"  You  can  crush  with  a  courtesy,  like  your  grandfather," 
she  said. 


366  SUCCESSION 

"  You  see,  I  ought  to  be  playing  now,"  said  Antoine, 
stretching  back  to  be  close  to  her,  in  sudden  confidence. 
"  I  do  not  want  to  think  of  that.  Talk  your  own  things  to- 
night." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  ''  that  is  harder  than  you  know." 

"Hard?"  he  queried  swiftly. 

"  Because  of  my  own  I  have  nothing.  I  have  been  re- 
flecting, that  is  our  fate." 

Antoine's  reply  to  this  was  to  slide  his  long  fingers  round 
her  hand  and  kiss  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Madame,  her  tone  softening.  "  Tell  me 
something  I  possess,  besides  an  artist  in  my  house,  who  is 
kind  to  me." 

"  You  are  beautiful,"  said  Antoine,  after  a  pause  of 
thought. 

"  I  am  not,  darling."  She  laughed  in  spite  of  her  bitter- 
ness. "  That  is  your  mistake.  I  please,  because  I  have 
studied  it,  that  is  all.  Dites  done,  Antoine — do  you  remem- 
ber your  mother?"  He  turned  his  eyes,  surprised,  and 
nodded.  "  She  had  more  than  a  gift  of  pleasing,"  Cecile 
said,  "  one  might  say  she  had  a  genius.  She  had  only  to 
come  into  a  room  to  change  every  face,  however  cross  and 
careworn.  I  cannot  say  what  it  was,  but  certainly  not  her 
beauty  alone.  I  know  half-a-dozen  men — yes,  I  could 
count  them — who  took  her  death  as  a  kind  of  personal  af- 
front— would  have  crossed  the  shades  with  a  drawn  sword 
to  fetch  her  back  from  an  exile  so  absurd,  so  unmerited." 
Stopping  short,  she  met  his  fascinated  eyes.  "  You  remem- 
ber her  beauty,  hein  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  gently.  "  She  was  beautiful,  I  expect. 
I  remember  her  hands  on  the  violin,  and  her  rings,  and  her 
great  eyes  when  she  knelt  down.  I  did  not  want  to  be 
stupid  for  her  then." 

"  You  were  never  stupid." 

"  Oh  yes.  I  never  could  play  in  her  lessons.  I  could  do 
nothing  when  she  was  there.  Perhaps,"  said  Antoine,  con- 
sidering sadly,  "  I  was  more  easily  afraid  then,  when  I  was 


THE   CRITIC  367 

six."  He  waited  a  minute.  "  She  always  told  papa  about 
me,"  he  proceeded,  "  but  papa  did  not  generally  mind.  He 
was  so  tired  when  he  came  home.  Sometimes  I  saw  him 
first,  because  I  went  to  meet  the  bicycle.  Then  I  rode  with 
him  to  the  gate." 

The  boy  had  dropped  his  head  back  on  the  chair,  con- 
sidering with  half-closed  eyes.     Suddenly  a  clock  struck. 

"  It  is  curious  to  remember  that,"  he  said,  coming  to  life 
and  sitting  up.     "  Now  it  is  five  o'clock." 

"  What  then?  "  said  Madame,  holding  him.  "  You  need 
not  practise — nonsense." 

"  Yes.  There  are  some  difficult  passages  to-morrow.  I 
have  done  the  tea — look." 

"  Antoine,  stay  where  you  are.  Yes,  I  shall  think  of  hor- 
rors, if  you  go.  You  amuse  me  very  well.  Go  on  remem- 
bering— your  point  of  view  is  so  perfectly  absurd." 

"About  her?"  he  asked.  "They  are  all  such  stupid 
little  things."  He  told  her  a  few,  quite  mechanically;  it 
was  clear  he  did  not  care  to  turn  his  mind  that  way. 

"  She  spoilt  your  childhood,"  reflected  Cecile.  "  Her 
death,  do  you  remember  ? "  she  asked  aloud. 

He  made  a  little  movement,  half  shrinking,  half  a  shrug. 
"  I  did  not  understand,"  he  said.  "  I  was  with  Madame 
Fantec,  down  in  the  village.  I  asked  her,  but  she  only  cried 
— I  think  about  the  little  baby.  Philippe  was  ill,  too;  he 
was  not  there.  I  did  not  understand  at  all,  really,  until 
papa  came,  and  then  of  course  I  saw  him."  The  deep 
breath  he  drew  was  heavy  with  ancient  suflFering.  "  He 
took  me  to  Paris,  to  grandpapa's  house,"  he  proceeded. 
"  I  hated  it — because  I  wanted  to  be  with  papa  alone.  I 
did  not  know  how  grandpapa  was  then."  An  interval,  while 
he  smiled  disdain  upon  his  youth.  "  I  thought  the  noise 
in  Paris  was  like  the  sea,"  he  resumed  seriously,  "  that  the 
sea  was  behind  the  houses.  I  did  not  like  all  the  stairs  in 
that  house.  Grandpapa  went  away  with  papa  to  the  station ; 
and  I  was  all  alone  with  my  uncle  there  in  the  little  study." 
He  caught  himself  up,  sliding  his  eyes   suddenly  to  her 


368  SUCCESSION 

face.  "  I  shall  not  tell  you  any  more  of  that,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Madame  calmly.  "  Lucien  would  not  be 
at  his  best,  with  a  strange  child  of — how  much? — seven. 
He  was  far  more  afraid  of  you,  mon  petit,  than  you  of 
him." 

"  Oh  no,  he  was  not  afraid,"  said  Antoine,  with  absolute 
certainty.  "  He  did  not  like  me,  that  was  all.  I  did  not 
like  him  either.  It  was  awful,  how  we  were."  His  gravity 
was  so  extreme  that  she  could  not  laugh.  "  And  papa  had 
told  me  to  be  good,  so  of  course  I  had  to  try.  But  he  said 
such  silly  things,  and  there  was  a  wind  out  of  doors,  and 
I  hated  the  place,  and  the  smell  of  the  books,  and  papa  had 
gone  altogether,  so  that  I  felt  quite  sick " 

"  Pauvre  cheri,"  murmured  Madame.  "  And  Lucien 
did  not  console  you?    What  silly  things  did  he  say?  " 

"  He  asked  me  if  I  had  not  got  a  handkerchief,"  said 
Antoine.  "  Twice,  he  asked  that.  And  was  I  hungry,  and 
would  I  go  to  bed.  To  bed  at  five !  That  was  all,  till  grand- 
papa came." 

"  Well,"  said  Madame,  as  he  stopped  short.  "  It  was 
surely  not  so  awful  then." 

"  It  still  was  rather.  He  was  there  quite  suddenly,  be- 
cause perhaps  I  had  been  asleep ;  in  his  cloak,  all  wet — I 
had  forgotten  his  hair  was  so  white.  I  did  not  know  I  was 
lying  in  his  chair,  and  I  was  much  too  sick  to  move.  My 
uncle  told  me  to  get  up." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Madame,  at  the  tone.     "  And  then  ?  " 

"  Then — grandpapa  spoke  to  me.  It  was  all  right,  when 
I  stood  up,  because  he  was  holding  me  with  his  hand.  I 
remembered  his  voice  when  he  was  near.  I  heard  him 
speak  to  my  uncle  with  '  tu,'  and  say  I  wanted  food.  It  was 
the  '  tu  '  showed  me  how  they  were  together.  I  did  not 
mind  my  uncle  so  much  after  that."  He  turned  a  half-shy 
glance  to  his  uncle's  wife,  who  happened  to  be  holding  him. 
"  Please,"  he  said  to  her,  with  propriety,  "  will  you  let  me 
go  and  practise?    It  is  only  because  I  must." 


THE   CRITIC  369 

"Only,"  said  Cecile.     "You  do  not  want  to,  eh?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said,  with  evident  sincerity. 

"  You  had  sooner  scribble  your  nonsense  over  there, 
with  a  pencil  in  each  hand." 

"  I  had  sooner  be  down  here,"  said  he. 

"  Do  you  hate  playing,  Antoine  ?  " 

He  turned  his  dark  eyes  on  her  for  a  moment.  "  No," 
he  said  deliberately.     "  Only,  I  am  afraid  rather." 

"  What  have  you  to  be  afraid  of  ?  You  do  what  you  like 
with  your  audience,  Lucien  says." 

"  Do  not  tell  him,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  do  what  I  like,  the 
days  it  is  good.  Yes,  I  believe  they  would  not  mind  so 
much,  in  England." 

"  Mind  what?" 

"  If  I  '  ratais.'  " 

"  Child,  how  ridiculous !  "  Cecile  was  almost  indignant. 
"  That  is  the  student's  fear." 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  But  when  I  was  a  student,  I  never 
thought  of  it.  It  is  only  lately  I  have  become  like  that.  It 
is  stupid,  hein?"  She  thought  his  eyes,  fastened  on  her, 
wonderful. 

"Are  you  serious,  Antoine?" 

"  Serious  ?  "  A  pause.  "  The  day  before  a  concert  is 
bad.     To-night  will  be  awful." 

"  But,  darling — since  when  ?  You  ought  to  tell  them  if 
you  suffer." 

"  Tell  whom?  "  he  said,  with  faint  impatience.  "  I  have 
told  you,  cela  suffit."  With  that  he  got  to  his  feet,  his  back 
to  the  bright  light  beyond,  so  that  the  expression  on  his 
face  was  lost. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  "  The  tea  was  nice.  I  am  sorry 
I  could  not  be  very  amusing  for  you,  but — one  cannot  al- 
ways." 

"  It  is  for  you  to  forgive,"  she  said,  in  her  softest  tone. 
"  I  shall  know  in  future  which  are  the  bad  days.  Listen 
an  instant."  She  held  his  hands.  "  It  is  right  that  you 
should  be  assured.    I  love  chatter — but  I  do  not  make  mis- 


370  SUCCESSION 

chief.     I  shall  not  say  a  word  of  this,  unless  it  can  be  of 
use.    You  trust  me,  do  you  not  ?  " 

He  kissed  her  hand  fervently  again:    and,  catching  up 
the  paper  pile,  was  gone  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

LETTERS 

"Is  1\I.  Lemaure  receiving  anybody,  can  you  tell  me?" 
said  Jem  Edgell,  pausing  at  the  entrance  to  the  concierge's 
dim  retreat.  There  were  two  women  within,  one  with  a 
basket,  engaged  upon  confidential  gossip,  low-pitched  but 
voluble ;  the  feminine  talk  which,  in  middle-class  societies, 
is  sure  to  encompass  malady. 

"  Voila  pour  vous,"  one  of  these  addressed  the  other, 
and  the  lady  with  the  basket  turned. 

"  Tiens,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  her  brown  face  beaming. 
"  M.  Philippe  up  there  will  be  enchanted." 

"  How  are  you,  Margot  ? "  said  Jem,  equally  affable. 
"  Off  to  market  ?  It's  the  grandfather  of  Monsieur  Philippe 
I  am  after,  as  it  happens — my  time  is  limited.  I  came  to 
find  out  what's  the  best  hour  for  him."  His  colloquial 
French,  the  language  of  all  his  young  manhood,  was  so 
good  that  the  other  woman  was  surprised.  To  her  the  tall 
Edgell  was  a  foreign  and  singular  apparition ;  but  to  Mar- 
got  it  was  a  familiar  oddity,  and  she  adopted  an  air  of 
proprietorship  at  once.  She  was  suspicious  of  all  visitors 
just  now ;  but  he  would  not  come,  she  knew,  unless  there 
were  good  reasons  for  his  coming.  She  had  respected  his 
good  sense  and  manners  equally,  ever  since  the  days  when 
he  recognised,  in  his  straightforward  fashion,  her  authority 
over  Antoine,  and  had  taken  her  into  council,  more  will- 
ingly than  Monsieur  himself,  over  those  little  matters  of  a 
child's  health  and  training  on  which  all  women  love  to  be 
371 


372  SUCCESSION 

consulted,  and  on  which  Margot,  simple  femme  de  menage 
as  she  was,  had  very  definite  and  vigorous  ideas. 

Now,  instead  of  proceeding  upstairs,  when  he  heard  that 
Monsieur  I'abbe  was  sitting  with  Monsieur,  he  set  forth 
with  Margot,  and  strolled  along  at  her  side,  oblivious  of 
all  form  and  custom,  across  the  boulevard  and  the  strip  of 
garden  that  separated  the  dwelling  from  the  nearest  shops. 
They  made  an  odd  couple,  but  in  that  quarter  hardly  any 
couple  could  be  so  odd  as  to  attract  much  attention. 

"  Is  he  eating  well  ? "  asked  M.  Edgell  concerning  his 
father-in-law — he  had  such  intelligent  questions,  Margot 
thought. 

Monsieur,  alas,  ate  little  in  these  days — almost  nothing 
except  when  M.  Savigny  obliged  him.  M.  Philippe's  ap- 
petite, on  the  other  hand,  was  happily  exceptional.  She 
was  inventing  the  present  meal  entirely  for  him,  and  hoped 
to-day  to  be  repaid  by  his  approval. 

"  He's  not  so  well  then  ?  "  said  Jem,  still  ignoring  the 
claims  of  his  son. 

Monsieur,  Margot  feared,  was  failing — ah,  but  we  all 
grow  old.  M.  Savigny  was  constantly  there,  or  M.  I'abbe, 
to  cheer  him ;  but  his  spirits  were  unequal,  and  at  the  worst 
times  he  shut  himself  from  all,  even  his  faithful  Margot. 

"Is  Philip  any  good?"  said  Jem,  glancing  at  the  tear 
on  her  brown  cheek. 

"  He  does  what  he  can,  pauvre  petit,"  said  Margot,  wip- 
ing the  tear.  "  Monsieur,  when  he  is  well  enough,  is 
pleased  to  have  him  there.  But  when  he  has  the  pain  at 
nights,"  she  added,  wath  a  kind  of  pride,  "  he  calls  me  al- 
ways, now  M.  Antoine  has  gone.  He  had  taken  to  waking 
the  little  one,  which  I  did  not  like ;  for  though  he  was  good 
and  quiet,  he  suffered  from  the  fright." 

Jem  noted  this,  but  made  no  direct  comment. 

"  You  have  a  pretty  houseful,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"  Phil's  flourishing,  at  least,  if  he  is  to  eat  all  that  basket." 

The  cook  considered,  pursing  her  lips.  "  M.  Philippe 
had  a  '  torticolis,'  of  which  he  complained  lately." 


LETTERS  373 

"  Pish,"  returned  Jem.  "  Your  mistake  is,  to  listen  to 
the  complaints." 

"  That  is  what  we  other  women  are  for,  Monsieur,"  said 
Margot  demurely.  "  Even  when  the  pain  is  of  small  mo- 
ment, one  can  listen,  and  ask  how  it  goes.  Here  I  get  my 
vegetables.    Monsieur  must  not  derange  himself  decidedly." 

Monsieur,  however,  was  strong  on  vegetables.  He 
was  far  from  ignorant  in  matters  of  the  market,  nor 
was  it  the  first  time  in  his  varied  experience  that  he  had 
been  out  with  a  cook  and  a  basket.  He  chose  Margot's 
apples  with  an  almost  professional  rapidity,  and  he  pointed 
out  a  blemish  in  a  salad  that  Margot  herself  might  have 
missed.  He  was  so  clever  in  the  matter  of  fowls,  finally, 
that  his  companion,  emerging  from  the  poultry  stall,  was 
driven  to  fall  back  on  an  ancient  formula. 

"  Monsieur  has  all  the  capacities,"  said  Margot. 

"  Necessities  of  life,"  said  Jem.     "  It's  better  to  know." 

Margot  knew  the  world,  however,  and  betrayed  her 
penetration.  "  Monsieur  has  done  it  once  for  Mademoiselle 
Henriette,"  she  breathed  seductively,  looking  sidelong. 

"  Once  or  twice,"  said  Jem,  with  a  smile.  "  I  generally 
sent  the  chickens  home."  He  added,  after  a  pause,  re- 
flectively :  "  She  loved  cooking  a  la  folic,  but  she  always 
felt  bourgeoise  followed  by  a  basket.  Her  figure  was 
wrong  for  it,  I  understood." 

"  C'est  bien  elle,"  murmured  Alargot,  amazed  and 
charmed  by  his  confidence.  She  shook  her  head  over  the 
remembered  picture.  "  But  Monsieur  is  English,"  she  pro- 
ceeded.   "  It  is  marvellous  that  he  knows." 

"Is  it?"  said  Jem.  "Well,  perhaps  it  is.  Phil  would 
never  feel  chickens  for  you,  would  he?" 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  Margot  was  shocked  at  the  idea.  M. 
Antoine  used  to  love  to  come,  when  one  would  let  him. 
But  it  was  only  Thursdays  he  had  the  time.  For  herself, 
Margot,  she  considered  an  early  walk  highly  beneficial  for 
youth ;  but  M.  Lucien  gave  him  those  long  exercises,  one 
after  another,  and  he  could  not  be  completely  at  his  ease 


374  SUCCESSION 

till  he  had  done  them.  Then  on  Sundays  he  accompanied 
Monsieur  to  St  Etienne,  and  could  not  go  to  the  shops  with 
her.  On  s'arrangeait  comme  ga.  For  M.  Lucien,  who  was 
not  croyant,  that  was  so  convenient. 

Margot  sniffed.  Passionately  on  her  master's  side,  and 
in  latter  days  very  frequently  on  Antoine's,  the  silent 
tension  with  Lucien  had  never  failed  through  all  the  years. 
It  amused  Jem  to  find  the  lines  traced  by  old  habit  still  the 
same  in  Margot's  mind,  as  they  were  upon  her  shrewd, 
determined  face.  It  put  the  clock  back  for  him  a  little,  and 
made  him  feel  less  weary  and  old  in  these  haunts  of  youth. 
How  long  was  it — how  many  lives  ago,  since  he  met  Hen- 
riette  by  these  fountains? 

"  Monsieur  has  good  news  from  England?  "  said  Margot, 
breaking  the  silence  after  the  right  interval  with  instinctive 
courtesy.  She  knew  where  his  thoughts  were  very  well, 
and  had  shaken  her  head  marvelling  often  at  a  faith  beau- 
tiful as — in  man — it  was  rare. 

"  All  serene  so  far,"  he  said,  the  wrinkle  returning  to  his 
brow.  "  I  think  he  will  get  through.  He  doesn't  write 
much,  of  course." 

"  Writing  vexes  him,"  said  Margot,  in  extenuation.  "  Yet 
it  was  wonderful,  when  he  was  but  eight  years  old,  how 
well  he  drew  his  name." 

James  abandoned  his  frown.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  he  has 
had  practice  in  drawing  it  since.  That's  about  all  is  re- 
quired of  him  in  the  literary  line.  As  to  news — ^he  was 
never  worth  a  cent." 

"  He  will  talk  while  he  writes,  p't'it  etourdi,"  said  Mar- 
got. "  M.  Lucien  in  the  spring  would  often  leave  him 
things  to  answer.  *  I  shall  come  into  the  kitchen  to-day,' 
says  he  to  me,  '  because  I  have  a  letter.  It  is  not  amusing 
in  the  study.'  *  Monsieur  should  talk  only  to  his  letters, 
when  he  writes  them,'  I  say.  '  How  talk  to  it,'  says  M. 
Antoine,  '  un  sale  petit  bout  de  papier.  You  talk  to  me, 
and  that  will  go  quicker.'  '  Ah,'  I  said,  '  it  is  not  like  that 
M.  Philippe  writes  his  beautiful  letters,  nor  Monsieur  son 


LETTERS  375 

Papa  either.  You  will  see  them  sitting  quiet,  and  their 
hand  moving  so  fast — it  is  incredible.'  " 

"  Question  of  capacity,"'  moralised  Jem,  who  enjoyed 
such  flattery  at  her  hands.  Soon  after  they  arrived  at  the 
house,  and  the  heavy  basket  was  hoisted  by  leisurely  de- 
grees up  the  stairs. 

"  You  are  getting  too  old  for  such  loads,"  said  Jem 
bluntly,  vexed  that  she  would  not  let  him  carry  it  entirely, 
though  she  stopped  to  gasp  at  all  the  halting-places. 

"  Dame,"  said  Margot,  "  Monsieur  is  right.  The  stairs 
are  higher  than  they  used  to  be.  But  there! — even  if  a 
house  should  possess  these  lifts,  they  are  always  out  of 
order." 

"That's  your  experience,  is  it?"  said  James.  "Well, 
look  here:  you  get  a  lift  out  of  the  proprietor,  and  I'll  en- 
gage to  keep  it  in  order — even  if  I  have,  as  is  probable,  to 
build  it  new.  That's  not  a  capacity,"  he  added  hastily. 
"  That's  my  trade."  ' 

"  It  is  a  worthy  profession  for  Monsieur,"  said  Margot, 
courteous  even  in  extremity,  "  to  relieve  the  limbs  of  the 
ageing  by  his  inventions.  Ah,  viola  M.  Philippe,  qui  sort 
pour  ses  etudes." 

Arriving  at  the  fourth  floor,  Philip  stood  before  them, 
dressed  as  for  an  Arctic  expedition,  an  enormous  muffler 
round  his  throat. 

"  Dad !  "  he  ejaculated,  his  eyes  brightening.  "  Oh,  very 
well,  that  settles  it :     I  sha'n't  go." 

"  You  seem  relieved,"  said  Jem.  "  How  are  you,  old  boy? 
Open  the  door,  can't  you,  you  young  cub." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Philip  to  relieve  Margot,  who  had 
to  balance  the  mighty  basket,  stoop  for  the  key,  and  un- 
latch the  door  with  a  practised  jerk. 

"  I  hadn't  meant  to  go,"  said  Philip.  "  The  library  only 
seemed  the  least  of  two  evils,  when  it's  such  a  deadly  bore 
indoors." 

"  And  I've  trod  down  the  balance,"  said  Jem.     "  Very 


376  SUCCESSION 

good;  though,  as  a  fact,  I've  not  come  to  Paris  to  amuse 
you." 

"  Grandpapa's  engaged,"  said  PhiHp,  catching  his  arm, 
"  so  you  may  just  as  well.  That  priest  is  with  him  all  the 
time  that  Savigny  isn't.  I  don't  get  a  chance  at  him.  One 
talks  about  his  soul,  and  the  other  about  sanitary  inspectors, 
and  anybody  but  grandpapa  would  have  got  tired  of  them 
both.     I  say — I  am  beastly  glad  you  have  come,  papa." 

There  was  a  note  of  genuine  pathos  in  his  voice  that 
made  him  seem,  to  his  father,  extremely  young.  Margot 
had  hinted  the  impression  also.  It  reminded  Jem  that, 
alone  of  all  the  family,  this  boy  was  facing  the  problems  of 
death  for  the  first  time,  for  he  had  been  on  a  sick-bed  him- 
self all  through  his  mother's  last  illness,  and  helpless  either 
to  anticipate  or  realise  his  loss  for  long.  Now  he  was  left 
in  comparative  solitude  to  meet  the  unknown  presence,  and 
it  was  bringing  his  ignorance  more  home  to  him  as  the 
days  passed,  despite  all  his  recently  acquired  information. 
The  faint  resentment,  fainter  panic  in  his  tone  and  grasp, 
showed  this.  His  grandfather's  last  weeks  were  like  to  bei 
a  final  stage  in  Philip's  education. 

"  Glad  to  see  me,  hey  ?  "  said  Jem,  in  his  pleasantest  tone.l 
"Well,  now,  what's  the  news?"  They  had  arrived  in  the; 
little  study,  which  bore  already  an  air  of  disuse  and  melan- 
choly, with  its  empty  chair. 

"There  is  none,"  said  Philip.  "How  could  there  be? 
I'm  out  of  everything  up  here,  and  nobody  comes  to  see' 
me;  and  I've  got  two  essays  to  write  on  subjects  I  know' 
nothing  about,  and  I  can't  slop  eternally  to  the  library  with' 
a  sore  throat  in  this  beastly  weather;  and  here's  the  kid 
having  an  absolutely  giddy  time  in  London,  and  it's  not' 
fair."  He  half  laughed  at  the  close  of  the  tirade,  as' 
though  conscious  of  its  childishness. 

"  You're  languishing  in  neglect,"  said  Jem,  eyeing  hiir 
without  a  smile.  It  was  really  gratifying  to  look  at  any-: 
thing  so  healthy  and  so  handsome.  "  You  have  some  cor-; 
respondence,   anyway,   which   means   somebody   attends  tc 


L  E  T  T  E  R  S  377 

you."  He  glanced  at  the  morning's  post,  scattered  broad- 
cast on  the  table. 

"Letters!"  said  Philip,  with  expression.  The  object 
of  letters  was  to  reconcile  him  to  his  existence,  which  the 
present  budget  had  not  accomplished.  James,  a  remote 
twinkle  showing  in  his  eye,  tried  a  different  tack. 

"  Well,  you  get  a  nice  close  time  for  working  out  of  it,  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

The  effort  had  no  success.  "  I've  given  up  working," 
said  Philip.  "  Fve  had  a  frightful  stiff  neck  for  three 
days." 

"  You  wear  your  collars  too  low,"  observed  his  father. 
"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so,  last  time  ?  You  shouldn't  give  in  to 
those  artist  fellows  so  easily."  He  laid  a  large  hand  as 
he  spoke  behind  the  injured  neck.  Philip  did  not  feel  quite 
comfortable.  He  had  been  through  a  phase  of  personal 
vanity  in  the  spring,  owing  partly  to  Jespersen's  persistent 
interest  in  his  profile.  He  had  kept  it  quiet,  and  he  did  not 
think  Jem  had  realised  its  existence. 

"  It's  the  weather,  Margot  says,"  he  growled,  turning 
his  gaze  towards  the  sky.  "  If  it  goes  on,  I  shall  jolly  well 
go  and  sit  in  the  kitchen." 

"  Bright  idea,"  said  Jem.  "  That's  where  Bebe  used  to 
pass  his  time — may  still  for  all  I  know;  unless  he's  learnt 
better  in  the  circles  he  frequents.  He's  gone  up  in  the 
world  a  bit,  hasn't  he?" 

"  I  should  think  he  has,"  said  Philip,  reaching  the  letters 
he  had  discarded.  "  Here's  Glenmuir — can't  talk  of  any- 
thing else — answers  none  of  my  questions.  Pie  writes  from 
London,  though  what  he's  doing  there  in  term  you  may  well 
ask.  He  thinks  he  has  been  having  influenza,  so  of  course 
he  drops  lectures,  and  makes  for  his  mamma." 

"  Pitiful  behaviour,"  murmured  Jem. 

"  Well,  you'll  be  pleased  to  hear  Antoine's  improved  out 
of  knowledge,  and  likely  to  be  the  success  of  the  season. 
Jolly  for  him,  isn't  it? — since  Glenmuir  knows  nothing 
.about  it.     I  daresay  he  hears  them  gabble  at  Oxford,  and 


378  SUCCESSION 

picks  it  up.  Well,  then  he  says  his  mother  is  giving  a  big 
party,  and  can't  for  love  or  money  get  his  precious  assist- 
ance." 

"  Wait  a  second,"  said  Jem.  "  Mrs  Glemuir " 

"  Lady  Earraid,"  said  Philip. 

"  I  beg  her  pardon,"  said  Jem.  "  She  wants  whose  as- 
sistance— her  son's  or  mine  ?  " 

"  Antoine's,"  said  Philip.  "  He's  high  in  favour  in  that 
quarter — was  from  the  first.  She  did  a  lot  for  him  his  first 
season,  even  my  uncle  admitted,  netting  people  for  his  con- 
certs. She's  ever  so  well  known — this  would  be  a  jolly 
pufif  for  him.  And  now  they  give  out  he's  too  delicate,  or 
something,  for  extra  engagements!  Awful  rot.  Pve  a 
mind  to  show  Savigny  that."  He  tossed  the  sheet  from  his 
friend  aside,  and  paused  impressively.  "  Here's  my  aunt," 
he  observed.     "  She's  worse." 

The  tragic  point  of  this  at  least  James  realised.  He  re- 
membered Philip's  position  in  his  aunt's  household,  and 
he  had  already  had  an  inkling  of  the  turn  of  Fate's  wheel 
at  Brackenhall.  He  drew  Philip  on  the  subject  with  great 
sympathy,  and  got  some  useful  information  by  the  way. 

"  He's  getting  spoilt,  do  you  think?"  he  queried,  at  last. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  "  she  doesn't  spoil  exactly — I  mean, 
you  can't  help  knowing  she's  noticing  all  the  time.  In  this 
letter  she  says  some  pretty  cute  things  about  the  kid,  though 
she  says  he's  better  fun  than  she  remembered.  He's  prob- 
ably been  treating  her  to  some  of  his  society  graces.  He 
seemed  to  me,  the  last  time  we  met,"  said  Philip,  with 
weight,  "  to  be  getting  a  trifle  artificial." 

"  Hum,"  said  James,  as  though  considering  it.  "  Does  he 
write  himself?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no.  Yes,  he  did  though,  once.  A  large  sheet 
with  about  six  words  on  it,  in  his  style." 

"  Got  it  there  ?  "  said  Jem  brusquely. 

"  No ;  I  tore  it  up.  It  was  only  to  say  a  tree  we  used 
to  climb  had  come  down  in  the  wood,  and  Yvonne  had 
refused  the  gardener,  and  Glenmuir  had  sent  his  love  to 


LETTERS  379 

me,  which  I'm  sure  he  didn't,  and  would  I  mind  mentioning 
if  the  vioHn  turns  up.  I  suppose  he  thought  you  might  have 
overlooked  the  chance  of  the  milkman  bringing  it  back, 
and  my  dropping  it  in  a  drawer  and  not  letting  on.  What 
are  you  laughing  at,  papa?  " 

"  It  doesn't  sound  specially  artificial,  that's  all,"  said 
Jem,  who  had  smiled. 

"  Most  kids  of  six  could  compose  better,"  said  Philip. 
•'  Call  that  a  letter  ?  " 

"  I  should  keep  them,  though,  if  I  were  you,"  said  his 
father,  and  passed  immediately  to  the  latest  police  reports. 
It  was  not  so  much  the  words  or  tone  as  the  fact  of  his 
instantly  leaving  the  subject  that  gave  Philip  a  remote  shock. 
Jem  may  have  known  that  the  crosser  and  more  egotistic 
Philip  appeared  to  be,  the  more  sensitive  he  was  to  slight 
hints.  He  became  at  once  intensely  anxious  to  know  what 
his  father  had  thought  of  Antoine ;  but  from  the  position 
he  had  adopted  he  could  not  show  concern  and  preserve  con- 
sistency. So  he  merely  became  a  trifle  more  gloomy; 
though,  being  a  really  expert  detective,  his  practical  advice 
was  at  his  father's  service,  and  they  discussed  the  chances 
keenly  for  some  time. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  James,  as  a  distant  door  shut  cau- 
tiously, and  slow  steps  made  their  way  out,  "  you  had  bet- 
ter post  me  up  how  much  your  grandfather  knows  before  I 
see  him." 

"About  the  violin,  you  mean?  He  heard  it  all,"  said 
Philip,  "  except  what  you  told  me  about  Charretteur — only 
he  forgets  a  bit." 

"How  did  he  learn — from  your  uncle?" 

"  No,  from  the  papers.  I'd  kept  the  telegram  and  let- 
ter from  him,  as  you  said:  it  never  struck  me  the  beastly 
reporters  would  get  hold  of  it." 

"  It  might  have  entered  your  calculations,"  said  Jem. 
"  Was  your  grandfather  vexed  ?  " 

"  He  was  at  first;  and  the  kid's  letter  came  at  the  wrong 
moment  and  didn't  improve  matters  much.    Perhaps  it  was 


38o  SUCCESSION 

as  bright  and  careless  as  that  little  trifle  he  sent  me.  I 
rather  think  grandpa  returned  him  a  rouser — he  can," 

"Did  he  dictate  it?" 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  Philip.  "  The  priest  held  the  pen. 
I  only  heard  about  it  afterwards." 

"  Did  the  boy  reply  again  ?  " 

"  Don't  think  so,"  said  Philip.  "  He  probably  dropped 
the  subject  gracefully — feeling  outmatched  by  the  holy  al- 
liance. Grandpapa  calmed  down  by  degrees,  though  he's 
still  depressed  about  it.  There's  been  a  complete  new  row 
since  then,"  added  Philip,  "  which  has  put  it  out  of  his 
mind." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Jem,  who  knew. 

"  Some  fuss  about  the  accompanist.  Haven't  you  heard  ? 
I  told  grandpapa,"  said  Philip,  who  was  by  now  enjoying 
himself,  "  that  it  was  simply  against  nature  for  the  kid  to 
live  a  month  with  my  uncle,  without  setting  a  match  to 
him,  one  way  or  another.  He  would  droop  in  the  intervals 
of  the  concerts  without  a  little  harmless  excitement  at  home. 
My  aunt  alludes  to  it  too,  but  she's  on  Tony's  side.  She 
says  it's  his  right  to  have  a  word  as  to  the  fellow  he  plays 
with,  and  that  he's  too  nervous  for  sudden  changes.  Per- 
sonally," added  Philip,  "  I  don't  think  that  fellow  Axel 
is  half  bad,  though  a  bit  of  a  bounder  in  private  life." 

Jem  said  nothing,  for  he  gathered  by  Philip's  remarks 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  at  least  half  the  facts  in  the  "  row  " 
he  referred  to,  which  was  what  had  brought  him  to  Paris. 
His  own  knowledge  was  incomplete,  for  he  had  only  An- 
toine's  point  of  view,  in  a  hasty  and  very  excited  short 
letter.  He  wished  to  sound  his  father-in-law,  if  it  were 
possible,  on  that  and  attendant  questions  of  general  policy; 
and  he  wished  further  to  judge  with  his  own  eyes  in  what 
state  of  mind  and  body  he  was,  for  the  various  reports  an- 
noyed him. 

He  could  not,  however,  choose  his  days  of  leisure ;  and 
though  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to  warn  the  old  man 
well  in  advance,  he  had  to  risk  the  condition  in  which  he 


LETTERS  381 

found  him.  x\s  it  chanced,  he  had  fallen  on  a  good  hour, 
for  M.  Lemaure  had  slept  passably,  and  the  priest's  de- 
parture had  left  him  fairly  cheerful.  Also  he  was  so 
pleased  and  flattered  to  see  his  son-in-law,  that  Jem  was 
touched.  As  always  in  emotion,  speech  left  the  engineer 
for  some  minutes,  and  standing  at  the  bedside,  the  delicate 
white  hand  in  his,  he  left  the  invalid  to  take  the  initiative 
and  make  his  gentle  excuses  in  English.  The  words  were 
well  chosen  and  finely  enunciated  as  ever,  his  mind  most 
evidently  untarnished,  though  his  nerves  were  strained  by 
constant  pain ;  but  the  sentences  came  slowly,  with  pauses 
between,  his  voice  was  not  strong,  and  had  lost  nearly  all 
its  colour  and  vivacity.  It  was  there  the  ebbing  life  showed 
most;  and  Jem  decided  even  in  the  first  few  minutes  that 
the  interview  must  not  be  long. 

It  was  pain  to  him,  this  realisation,  for  he  loved  to  hear 
Henriette's  father  talk,  though  he  was  apt  to  be  rather 
wordless  himself  in  his  company.  He  had  a  deep  respect 
and  affection  for  him,  but  he  could  never  lose  the  sense 
of  living  in  a  different  world.  His  wife  had  done  little 
to  bridge  this  gap  of  which  he  was  so  sensitive,  and  since 
her  death,  at  almost  every  meeting  in  the  last  seven  years, 
Antoine  had  been  his  unconscious  interpreter.  In  a  fashion 
the  boy  was  so  still,  for  now  in  his  absence  they  spoke  of 
little  else,  turning  instinctively  to  that  subject  as  the  thing 
that  must  unite  them.  Edgell  on  his  side  advanced  his 
ideas  with  caution,  feeling  humble  here  as  he  never  did  in 
the  boy's  own  company.  The  spectacle  of  age  is  powerfully 
appealing  to  the  strong  man  of  middle  life,  especially  when 
age  puts  its  clutch  on  powers  that  have  been  rare.  Jem  had 
all  his  nation's  strong  sentiment,  and  his  hopes  soon  failed 
of  stating  more  than  half  his  case.  Instead,  he  suffered  an 
old  fascination,  and  attended,  storing  up  thoughts  and 
phrases  deliberately.  The  weakness  of  the  tired  voice  lent  a 
new  plaintiveness  to  M.  Lemaure's  little  remarks  on  his 
grandson,  which  fell  oddly  on  the  father's  ear,  and  so  en- 
graved them  on  his  memory. 


382  SUCCESSION 

"  I  wish  he  would  write  himself,"  he  said,  as  he  slowly 
sorted  and  arranged  one-handed  Lucien's  series  of  letters 
for  Jem's  benefit,  for  that  seemed  the  simplest  way  to  spare 
discussion.  "  I  frightened  him  perhaps  in  my  last.  Phil 
said  it  was  severe.  I  am  easily  severe  with  him — as  you 
know." 

"  I  know  also,"  said  Edgell,  "  that  he  can  bear  severity." 

"  Generous,  yes,  the  sweet.  He  knows  the  reason — I  am 
anxious,  helpless  now.  It  is  only  through  him — I  can  tes- 
tify." His  voice  failed,  and  he  waited  to  recover.  "  He 
has  faults,  of  course,"  he  resumed  painfully.  "  But  it  is 
not  as  Lucien  thinks.     He  is  not  arrogant." 

"  Does  Lucien  say  that  ?  "  said  Jem. 

"He  implies  it,  more  than  once.  The  question  is  com- 
plicated, rather.     You  had  better  read." 

Jem  turned  to  the  letters,  unwillingly  enough.  He  would 
a  thousand  times  sooner  have  had  M.  Lemaure's  own 
thoughts  on  Antoine.  It  was  the  greater  tribute  to  Lucien, 
truthful  and  exact  as  he  was  always  with  his  father,  that 
the  reader  grew  interested  as  he  perused  letter  after  letter, 
short,  and  written  evidently  at  fixed  intervals,  seeming  some-' 
what  of  the  nature  of  reports  on  his  charge.  The  hints  as 
to  Antoine's  growing  reputation  were  slight,  but  quite  per- 
ceptible, 

"  Cecile  is  kept  busy  refusing  invitations,"  he  said  once, 
"  She  declares  it  entertains  her  to  correspond  with  the 
aristocracy.  Why  the  child  should  attract  such,  it  baffles 
me  to  imagine.  But  she,  who  has  some  experience,  says 
that  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  simple  folk." 

Later  on  came  the  first  allusion  to  the  point  at  issue. 

"  I  am  glad  Victor  continues  to  visit  you.  Tell  him 
that  I  am  quite  of  his  opinion  that  Antoine  and  young  Axel 
should  part  company.  What  served  last  winter  does  not 
serve  this.  Axel  did  well  enough  the  first  season,  faute  de 
mieux.  He  has  shown  himself  pleasant  and  fairly  adapt- 
able, and  modest  even  to  an  unnecessary  degree.  But  char- 
acter is  not  the  point,     Antoine  has  a  very  marked  style 


LETTERS  383 

and  Axel  has  none.  He  can  carry  through  a  classical  pro- 
gramme passably,  but  in  modern  music  he  is  helpless.  Vic- 
tor of  course  gave  him  several  lessons  gratis  in  the  autumn, 
and  the  boy  teaches  him  constantly,  but  it  is  evidently 
absurd  it  should  continue  thus.  The  mere  strain  of  it  for 
Antoine  is  greater  than  any  change  would  be,  though  I 
cannot  make  Cecile  see  it.  She  is  against  me,  for  some  rea- 
son, in  this.  .  .  .  Axel  is  no  more  than  the  rather  am- 
bitious hack  accompanist,  who  has  had  unusual  chances. 
Antoine  should  pair  now  with  a  pianist  of  his  own  calibre, 
if  it  is  only  for  his  own  education." 

"  I  have  told  the  boy,"  the  next  letter  pursued  the  theme, 
"  that  you  leave  all  decision  in  the  matter  to  me.  His  only 
reply  to  my  reiterated  arguments  is  that  he  likes  Axel.  I 
said  that  he  liked  outshining  him,  which  is  the  fact.  The 
only  answer  he  could  discover  to  this,  after  much  twisting, 
was  characteristic.  Nobody,  says  he,  can  play  the  piano 
very  well.  I  said  it  was  time  he  gave  up  saying  so,  and  pro- 
posed that  he  should  go  and  hear  Ribiera.  Cecile  had  heard 
so  many  reports  that  she  was  curious,  and  I  had  agreed 
to  take  her  to  a  recital.  I  found  myself  unusually  busy 
at  the  time,  so  I  sent  Antoine,  much  against  the  grain,  in 
my  place  to  escort  her.  The  effect  on  them  was  amusing. 
Cecile  was  quite  enthusiastic,  more  emotionnee  than  I  have 
ever  known  her  to  be,  by  music.  The  boy  was  mute  and 
evidently  cast  down.  He  agreed  when  my  wife  appealed  to 
him,  and  when  pressed,  discriminated  a  little.  But  he 
seemed  tired  almost  to  tears,  and  as  it  was  late,  we  did  not 
press  him  much.  I  think  the  experience  may  have  a  whole- 
some effect  upon  him." 

Jem,  after  skipping  a  little,  found  the  next  reference  to 
the  subject,  tacked  on  to  the  account  of  a  rehearsal. 

"  I  caught  young  Axel  afterward,"  said  Lucien,  "  and 
had  a  conversation  with  him  on  the  subject  I  mentioned  to 
you.  I  put  the  position  as  pleasantly  as  I  could,  and  he 
seemed  amenable  enough,  and  is  evidently  quite  aware  of 
his  weak  points.     He  was  full  of  rather  awkwardly  ex- 


384  SUCCESSION 

pressed  gratitude,  to  you,  mon  pere,  first  and  foremost. 
We  have  given  him  a  '  leg  up,'  if  you  comprehend  that  ex- 
quisite expression.  He  said  he  had  never  supposed  my 
nephew,  whom  he  calls  by  a  nickname,  would  put  up  with 
him  for  so  long ;  especially  since  Moricz,  and  after  Victor's 
kind  attentions  to  him  in  the  autumn.  Indeed,  he  turned 
pink  and  restive  at  the  first  mention  of  our  friend's  name. 
He  says,  if  M.  Duchatel  ever  finds  anybody  to  play  the 
passages  in  the  third  and  fourth  sonatas,  he  will  be  glad  to 
meet  the  fellow.  He  added  that  no  one  in  the  world  but 
Antoine  would  have  stood  his  rudeness  at  the  last  re- 
hearsals, and  that  he,  little  Axel,  could  hardly  keep  his 
seat.  This  interested  me  as  throwing  light  on  M.  Victor's 
discontent.  We  know  he  can  be  unpleasant  when  he  likes, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  he  could  score  off  this  poor  little 
Cockney.  Antoine  himself  has  said  nothing  of  any  differ- 
ence; at  least  they  must  have  made  it  up,  for  I  happen  to 
know  Victor's  hand,  and  he  writes  regularly.  And,  by  the 
way,  father,  Cecile  says  you  might  ask  him  to  be  more 
lenient  to  the  child's  little  inventions ;  for  he  takes  criticism 
in  that  quarter  very  seriously,  and  I  notice  his  periods  of 
depression  often  coincide  with  the  arrival  of  these  tirades." 

"  Is  this  Victor,"  Jem  demanded  of  a  sudden,  "  a  person 
who  counts?  " 

"  For  Bebe,  profoundly,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  his  fine  brows 
lifting  slightly. 

"  Not  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  personal  sympathy  for  him,"  said  M.  Lemaure. 
"  His  mother  is  an  old  friend,  and  he  has  been  exquisitely 
kind  to  me."  He  waited.  "  As  a  writer,  he  has  courage 
and  sincerity."    He  waited  again. 

"  He  overdoes  the  sincerity,  perhaps,  with  others,"  said 
Jem. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  the  old  man.  "  They  say  so.  He 
is  never  bitter  with  me." 

"  Is  he  a  teacher?"  said  James,  having  thought  a  little. 

"  Teacher  ? — no.     What  makes  you  ask  that  ?  " 


I  LETTERS  385 

"  I  had  not  meant  professionally.  I  suppose  I  meant, 
if  he  had  it — the  knack,  instinct,  whatever  it  is — he  would 
be  safe  not  to  hand  the  bitterness  on." 

"To  our  jeunesse,  do  you  mean?  You  have  not  found 
him  embittered,  surely?" 

"  I  have  not,  no ;  but  there's  the  danger." 

M.  Lemaure  considered  for  a  space,  his  thin,  beautiful 
hand  veiling  his  eyes.  "  I  think  there  is  no  danger  for 
Antoine,"  he  said  at  last.  "  For  the  reason  that  he  has 
never  been  happy  enough.  The  bitterness  you  mean  is  an 
imprudent  happiness  soured — a  nausea  of  the  mind.  He 
suffers  much,  the  child :  he  has  always  had  the  capacity  of 
suffering.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  believe  it  makes  for 
sanity." 

Jem,  after  a  pause,  nodded  and  turned  to  the  letters 
again.  "  Is  this  all  ?  "  he  asked,  having  read  a  few  more 
accounts  of  conflicts,  in  all  of  which  the  writer,  according 
to  himself,  had  the  advantage ;  and  during  which  the  young 
man  Axel's  chances  seemed  to  be  vanishing  rapidly. 

His  father-in-law  stirred  from  his  thoughts.  "  You  have 
read  the  proposition  of  Ribiera?  Ah,  no,  I  am  stupid, 
you  have  not  had  Cecile's.  You  should  read  all  of  that,  she 
writes  so  charmingly." 

The  fact  that  he  failed  to  find  at  once  the  letter  he  wanted 
agitated  him  clearly,  and  Jem,  to  give  him  time  and  to  dem- 
onstrate that  there  was  no  hurry,  let  himself  be  diverted 
by  an  illustrated  sheet  that  lay  near  him  on  the  bed. 

"  Time  passes  fast,"  he  commented  upon  it.  "  I  did  not 
know  the  Christmas  numbers  were  out." 

"  My  daughter-in-law  sent  that,"  said  M.  Lemaure,  his 
anxious  brow  clearing.  "  She  finds  so  many  things  to 
amuse  me.    I  suppose  you  have  seen  Zep's  drawing?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  Jem,  turning  the  pages  easily.  M.  Lemaure 
said  no  more,  but,  postponing  the  question  of  the  letter, 
watched  his  face  with  a  smile  till  he  exclaimed. 

"  Parfaitement,"  he  then  said  gently.  "  I  see  they  neg- 
lect you  for  me,  in  these  important  matters.     Caricatures, 


386  SUCCESSION 

on  the  whole,  are  kinder  than  in  my  day.  Lucien  has  a  col- 
lection of  mine,  I  believe,  and  that  must  join  it." 

"  But  it's  extraordinary,"  said  Jem.  "  Zep  must  have 
seen  him  in  the  life." 

"  He  did  once,  for  five  minutes,  according  to  Lucien. 
Quite  a  kindly  attention,  would  you  not  say,  from  such  a 
cynic?    At  least,  Bebe  does  not  stir  bitterness  in  others." 

Zep's  drawing,  or  rather  series  of  drawings,  represented 
a  fete  offered  to  the  prizewinners  in  the  lottery  of  the  last 
season.  These  were  largely  French,  for  the  talented  artist 
himself  was  of  that  nationality,  but  various  English  and 
German  notables  were  also  freely  treated  therein.  Zep, 
whose  pen  spared  nobody,  saw  his  chance,  and  dealt  with 
every  branch  of  science,  art  and  literature  in  turn.  The 
actors  were  there,  and  more  particularly  the  actresses;  the 
'painters,  among  which  the  melancholy  M.  Zep  himself  ap- 
peared in  a  modest  corner,  with  a  face  twice  as  long  as  life, 
and  his  round  shoulders  heartlessly  exaggerated.  His  own 
commentary  beneath  was  crisp,  and  he  went  on  to  mal- 
treat the  authors,  who  gave  way  in  turn  to  some  of  the 
Lemaure's  intimate  acquaintance  in  the  "  new  academy  of 
music."  A  portion — an  unmistakable  portion — of  Victor 
Duchatel,  looking  like  a  man-doll  or  tailor's  model,  was 
discovered  shrinking  behind  the  enormous  bulk  of  the 
operettist  Adrien  Dorn,  who  occupied  the  whole  fore- 
ground, and  was  a  sample  of  Zep's  wit  on  its  least  pleasant 
side.  Turning  the  page  quickly  to  escape  this  monstrosity, 
Jem  had  been  confronted  by  an  unmistakable  likeness  of 
his  son,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Lemonski,  and  followed 
by  a  diminishing  rank  of  children. 

"  Nor  was  youth  lacking  to  the  festal  scene,"  Zep  ob- 
served blandly,  below.  "  Little  Rudolf  with  his  celebrated 
scowl,  little  Antoine  with  his  celebrated  smile  " — and  so 
passed  to  chaff  others  of  the  band.  But  his  wicked  pen 
supplied  all  omissions  in  the  drawing  of  the  pair,  though 
form  and  features  were  still  rendered  with  the  utmost 
economy   of    line.      Jem   lingered   over   it    with   the   over- 


LETTERS  387 

powering  relish  of  one  who  was  both  a  parent  and  a 
draughtsman. 

"  I  shall  negotiate  for  the  original  of  that,"  he  declared, 
before  he  flung  the  paper  down.  "  Line-drawing  gives  play 
of  feature,  w-hich  is  where  photographs  always  fail.  Zep 
never  flatters,  but  for  once  he's  just.  Now,  shall  I  look  for 
that  letter?" 

M.  Lemaure  was  reminded,  but  both  their  efforts  failed 
to  find  it.  By  the  way  Jem  witnessed  again  his  great  feeble- 
ness, the  pain  it  was  to  move,  and  the  intense  nervous  an- 
noyance he  could  barely  contain  at  this  blocking  of  the 
channels  of  expression ;  an  annoyance  naturally  more  keen 
in  one  who  had  expressed  so  finely  and  so  freely,  whose 
senses,  tones  and  movements  had  been  alike  so  eager  in 
their  service  on  the  brain.  Equally  touching  was  his  de- 
liberate tranquillity  when  forced  to  abandon  the  effort. 

"  Useless,"  he  smiled.  "  I  am  a  log  henceforth,  my  son, 
and  you  must  bear  with  me.  I  must  endeavour  to  tell  you 
the  case  instead,  if  you  excuse  a  pause  to  summon  my 
faculties." 

"  I  hoped  it  might  come  to  that,"  said  Jem.  "  It  was  gen- 
erally to  be  talked  to  that  I  came  here,  wasn't  it?"  His 
large,  warm  hand  closed  on  the  frail  fingers. 

"  Was  it  ?  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Certainly  no  child  of 
mine  ever  interrupted  me  so  little.  You  explained  your- 
self once  for  all,  eh?    That  sufficed." 

"  I've  passed  examinations  in  my  time,"  said  Jem,  "  but 
none  so  severe  as  that.    However — I  was  received." 

"  Received,  yes,"  M.  Lemaure  repeated,  gently  pleased. 
"  That  is  true,  Jem.  You  have  even  been  entrapped,  some 
might  say.    We  hold  you  fast,  hein?  " 

"  At  your  service,"  said  Jem  quietly.  Then  and  there 
he  saw  that  one  part  of  his  communication  could  not  be 
made,  that  he  could  let  no  suggestion  fall,  at  this  time,  of 
any  radical  change  in  the  existing  arrangement.  He  could 
not  cut  the  last  strand  that  bound  this  man  to  life,  as  he 


388  SUCCESSION 

must  inevitably  do  if  he  tore  his  son  summarily  from  his 
voluntary  service. 

M.  Lemaure's  wistful  look  on  Zep's  drawing  had  meant 
that,  the  hesitating  words  he  used,  the  photographs  that 
faced  him,  the  way  his  still  capable  hand  strayed  among  the 
papers  scattered  on  the  couch ;  dated  records  of  triumph  in 
which,  even  among  the  descending  mists  of  age,  he  could 
not  but  believe.  There  was  nothing  for  Jem  to  do  now  but 
what  he  was  doing — wait. 

He  sat  in  the  same  spirit  of  submission  to  hear  of  Ri- 
biera.  It  was  all  in  the  same  vein,  surely,  he  thought, 
these  unconscious  and  unsought  conquests.  In  spite  of 
himself  Antoine  scored — it  could  not  be  entirely  to  his 
special  talent  that  he  owed  his  effect,  for  it  was  on  the 
uncommon  men  of  all  tastes  and  ranks  that  the  effect  was 
most  clearly  produced.  "  Zep  "  was,  to  Edgell's  knowledge, 
both  violent  and  vulgar;  Ribiera  was,  by  common  report, 
a  cunning  snob;  but  they  were  men  of  genius  both,  and 
the  latter  at  least  of  distinguished  intellect.  Cecile  Lemaure, 
in  the  lost  letter,  had  described  the  charitable  concert,  a 
semi-public  entertainment  which  the  Earraids  had  arranged, 
and  of  which  the  Spanish  pianist — a  former  professor  of 
Lady  Earraid's  for  a  season — had  been  the  unquestioned 
star.  He  had  agreed  on  his  pupil's  instance  to  play  once, 
and  all  society  had  flocked  to  hear  him.  Madame  Lemaure 
had  once  more  been  shaken  out  of  her  cool  attitude,  she 
used  the  words  of  the  multitude  about  Ribiera,  called  him 
exquisite,  divine.  Jem  gathered  that  he  was  a  handsome, 
languid  Southerner,  whose  grace  could  captivate  even  where 
his  art  failed  of  appeal.  Antoine,  in  his  own  little  letter, 
which  Jem  was  fingering  in  his  pocket  while  his  father- 
in-law  talked,  said  that  Ribiera  "  warmed  "  the  piano,  and 
now  he  had  discovered  how  to  write  for  it.  Aware  of  the 
boy's  odd  and  lifelong  prejudice  against  the  timbre  of  that 
particular  instrument,  Jem  realised  the  weight  of  the  trib- 
ute. Antoine  himself  had  played  at  the  close  of  the  chari- 
table programme,  with  the  much  criticised  Axel  to  support 


LETTERS  389 

him ;  and  Senor  Ribiera,  who  chanced  to  approve  the  extra 
piece  he  selected,  took  upon  himself  to  shoulder  Mr  Axel 
off  the  stool  before  all  the  world,  and  accompany  the 
morccau  in  person.  Lady  Earraid  had  been  gratified,  the 
public  charmed,  Antoine  and  the  ruddy  Mr  Axel  much 
amused.  But  Ribiera  himself,  as  affairs  proved,  was  not 
such  a  freakish  person  as  most  geniuses  are  presumed  to 
be,  and  it  seemed  he  was  merely  experimenting. 

His  note  to  Antoine,  received  the  next  day,  had  been 
enclosed  to  the  head  of  the  Lemaures,  and  the  old  man 
found  and  read  it  to  Jem,  his  tone  trembling  with  pure 
pride.  It  invited  the  boy,  in  terms  of  mature  dealing,  to 
join  him  in  a  trio-playing  enterprise  at  or  after  the  New 
Year.  It  finished  with  a  phrase  of  full-worded  flattery,  and 
was  signed  with  the  famous  name.  Antoine's  grandfather's 
pleasure  in  reading  it  was  obvious,  and  Jem,  veritably  puz- 
zled, left  it  in  his  hands. 

"  Voila,"  said  the  old  man,  finally  dropping  it.  "  And 
now — he  refuses." 

"  Antoine  does?  " 

"  Completely.  He  was  extraordinarily  moved,  Lucien 
said,  but  quite  stubborn.  He  upholds  little  Axel — and  he 
rejects  Ribiera.  My  son  finds  it  incredible,  and  I  own  that 
I  do  also.    He  is  surely  getting  fanciful,  our  little  celebrity." 

Jem  watched  his  troubled  face  for  some  moments,  won- 
dering w^hich  course  among  two  or  three  was  best.  Then, 
on  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  drew  out  the  letter  he  was 
fingering,  and  offered  it  silently. 

"  This  is  himself  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  grasping  it,  his 
face  clearing.  "  But  that  is  what  I  wanted — I  thank  you. 
Jem.  He  writes  in  English  to  you — yes.  That  is  a  good 
.child." 

[  "Dear  Papa  [the  letter  ran], — I  do  not  know  how  to 
live,  because  I  may  not  talk  to  grandpapa.     My  uncle  has 

ibeen  furious  again,  and  he  says  while  I  am  excited  I  must 
not  write  to  him,  because  it  hurts  him  when  I  am.     I  am 


390  SUCCESSION 

very  excited,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  ill,  just  because  they 
will  not  understand.  So  you  will  not  mind  me  to  tell  you 
about  it,  though  perhaps  I  shall  not  post  the  letter." 

This  was  the  opening.     There  followed  the  character  of 
Ribiera  the  musician,  aptly  expressed,  and  most  penetrating 
as  the  father  suspected,  for  he  saw  the  old  artist  linger, 
half  smiling  over  the  lines.    "  This  is  the  man,"  the  writer 
proceeded,  "  who  wants  me  to  play  some  beautiful  things 
ensemble,  duo  and  trio,  during  these  months  in  Paris.     He 
has  presented  me  the  programme  with  a  polite  French  let- 
ter.   I  wrote  to  him  at  once,  of  course,  to  say  what  had  he 
done  to  Jacques,  and  had  he  paid  him — that  he  was  to  tell 
me  first.    It  was  the  next  day  that  my  uncle  was  so  furious, 
because  Ribiera  sent  to  make  him  come,  and  said  a  lot  of 
things.     That  I  would  marchander  with  him  instead  of  to 
know  my  interest,  and  awful  words  to  be  most  cruel  of 
Jacques,  and  sent  us  all  to  the  devil  in  swearing.    And  he 
said  my  uncle  should  teach  me  manners  before  he  let  me 
arrange  my  own  finance,  and  a  rude  thing  of  grandpapa  \ 
I  have  forgotten,  and  my  uncle  should  bring  me  by  the  ' 
ear  to  ask  his  pardon,  and  everything  to  annoy  him  most  ! 
horribly.    So  he  was  furious  in  the  evening,  and  said  I  was  j 
mad,  and  Ribiera  un  veritable  demon — and  still  he  wants  j 
us  to  play  together !     Cher  papa,  will  you  represent  the  \ 
beautiful  Beethoven  andante  that  we  shall  make  together  j 
like  that?" 

"  Do  not  be  angry  yourself,"  the  letter  concluded,  "  but  | 
listen.  If  grandpapa  himself  says  I  shall  apologise  and  j 
play,  good.  If  he  is  still  vexed  about  my  violin,  and  has  ! 
forgotten  Jacques,  and  I  am  alone  to  remember  all  that,  j 
then  I  will  do  the  concerts  after  Christmas.  Because  it  I 
seems  one  must  forget,  not  to  be  completely  afifole,  and  I 
have  still  two  more  concerts  here,  and  I  wish  to  think  of 
them,  and  prevent  my  uncle  talking." 

After  completing  the  slow  perusal,  the  old  man  paused,  , 
his  hand  across  his  eyes  again. 


I  LETTERS  391 

"  Madness,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  to  speak  of  money  to  a 
Spanish  Jew.  Good  heavens," — he  stared  at  the  sheet  anew 
— "  this  explains  Lucien's  annoyance.  Why  can  they  not 
tell  me  all  ?  " 

After  another  difficult  pause,  as  the  father  still  sat  be- 
side him  silent,  he  said:  "See,  Jem,  it  is  better  if  you 
write,  since  he  appeals  to  me  through  you." 

"  He  trusts  me  to  interpret,"  said  Edgell,  "  though  God 
knows  I  can't.  Perhaps  it  was  chiefly  to  relieve  his  heart 
he  wrote."  Jem  was  uncertain  still  if  he  had  done  right 
to  show  the  communication.  He  felt  helpless  almost,  before 
the  man  who  knew,  and  with  his  own  knowledge  of  the 
child. 

"  It  is  passionate,"  said  the  sick  man,  and  a  faint  edge 
of  resentment  was  just  perceptible.  The  passion  of  life 
was  past  for  him.  "  This  Jacques  is  young  Charretteur," 
he  pursued  painfully.  "  Perhaps  you  have  not  heard  of 
him." 

"  I  have  heard  something,"  said  Jem.  Especially  after 
that  cry  for  the  truth  it  irked  him  not  to  tell  his  companion 
all  the  facts,  while  he  was  about  it.  Yet  he  knew  the  old 
man  had  been  purposely  kept  in  the  dark,  as  to  the  suspicion 
that  rested  on  Jacques.  Jem's  own  suspicions,  in  the  long 
run,  had  begun  to  settle  there ;  and  he  quite  saw  what  fruit- 
less vexation  of  mind  would  have  been  aroused  by  the  dis- 
closure. Yet  he  saw  also,  from  his  boy's  point  of  view, 
how  nearly  the  question  of  Jacques'  guilt  or  innocence 
touched  the  present  difficulty — that  the  origin  of  the  "  pas- 
sion "  of  this  writing  lay  there.  And  it  was  his  private 
persuasion  that,  in  a  question  of  justice,  the  best  brain 
should  be  taken  into  council,  even  though  the  frame  at- 
tached to  it  might  be  weak.  After  all,  was  it  not  M. 
Lemaure's  affair  as  well  ?  Jem  had  come  questing  aid,  hum- 
bly enough,  for  himself  as  much  as  Antoine,  but  the  spring 
of  inspiration  to  which  they  both  turned  on  instinct  was 
failing  now. 

"You  remember  Charretteur?"  he  prompted  gently. 


I 


392  SUCCESSION 

"  Yes,  yes,  poor  boy.  He  was  headstrong — I  saw  it. 
Raymond  agreed.  Victor  says  he  has  wrecked  himself. 
Many  do." 

"  You  think  Bebe  had  best  forget  him,  then  ?  Let  him 
go  ?  "  Jem  queried  as  he  stopped  again.  "  That  he  should 
take  this  offer?  " 

"  He  must  certainly  apologise.  Ribiera  is  his  superior — • 
the  front  rank,  and  has  paid  him  a  high  compliment.  He 
has  failed  in  common  courtesy." 

"  To  be  sure,"  his  son-in-law  said  patiently,  for  the  sen- 
tences dropped  ever  more  slowly.  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  After  a 
silence,  he  said :  "  I  will  send  him  a  scolding  on  my  own, 
if  you  like,  for  going  outside  his  business.  He  has  no  right 
to  swagger  and  rebel,  I  quite  admit.  Only  the  position  is 
stiff  for  a  boy,  if  he  knew  this  Jacques,  and  knew  him  to 
be  unfairly  treated.  I'll  soothe  him,  sir,  or  set  him  down, 
or  both  together,  just  as  you  think  best.  He'll  take  it  from 
me — even  at  the  roughest — always."  In  the  last  phrase, 
the  inner  trouble  came  through  his  voice,  though  his  eyes 
were  cast  down  in  speaking.  Jem  was  anxious,  more  than 
he  could  betray,  for  a  message  of  confidence  and  consola- 
tion, to  convey  to  the  boy  in  England.  i 

"Not  rough,"  said  the  old  man,  yet  more  painfully.! 
"You  must  be  keen  and  clear — clear  above  all,  for  him.  I 
could  give  the  words  if — English  seems  vague  to  me  at 
times,  and  Antoine  has  the  French  brain.  Tell  him  it  is 
a  chance,  another  step — absurd  to  thrust  it  by.  My  son 
says  truly  the  only  thing  he  lacks  is  the  good  ensemble. 
Lucien  speaks  of  condescension — but  there  is  too  much 
talk  of  that.  It  cannot  exist,  in  art.  Lucien  knows,  as  I 
do,  that  Ribiera  will  not  be  disappointed." 

"  He  can't  forget  Lucien,"  thought  Jem,  his  pencil  sus- 
pended though  his  head  was  still  bent.  "  Towards  the 
end,  habit  conquers." 

"  The  programme  is — such  as  I  would  choose.  Two  of 
the  trios  named  are  exquisite.  The  other — the  Mozart — if 
I  might  hear  it "     M.  Lemaure's  white  head  sank,  his 


LETTERS  393 

brow  resting  on  the  fragile  hand  again.  "  Eternal  youth," 
he  murmured  in  his  own  tongue,  "  my  Marcel," — and  si- 
lence fell. 

Jem,  fearful  of  forgetting  a  word,  even  of  such  frag- 
ments, had  jotted  a  sheet  half-full  of  notes,  and  sat  toying 
with  his  pencil  anew. 

"Your  love?"  he  said  gently,  prompting  once  more,  as 
the  silence  was  unbroken.  But  it  remained  unbroken,  for 
as  he  discovered  soon  after,  his  wife's  father,  still  in  the 
attitude  of  reflection,  had  fallen  asleep. 

Jem's  remaining  plan  was  to  see  Savigny,  but  there  his 
day's  fortune  failed  him.     It  was  the  "  children's  morning," 
Philip  informed  him,  at  the  clinique,  and  Savigny  not  in- 
frequently left  the  children  in  his  younger  partner's  hands. 
His  own  appearance  was  given  to  inspiring  terror  purely 
amongst  youth ;  and  though  the  terrorising  faculty  had  at 
times  its  advantages,  especially  on  the  parents — who  were 
usually  responsible,  according  to  the  doctor's  experience, 
1    iot  the   sins  and  sufferings  of  their  offspring — the  little 
•  sinners  themselves  confessed  more  readily  to  Dr  Bronne. 
I   Thus,  on  the  day  in  question,  Savigny  had  abandoned  his 
1   post  with  small  scruple,  and  gone  into  the  country  to  in- 
I  spect  a  certain  institute  for  the  cure  of  nervous  disorders, 
)  recently  founded  by  his  example  and  instigation,  which  at 
■  present  occupied  the  forepart  of  his  spacious  mind,  and 
crowded  all  his  other  activities  to  the  rear. 

Since  Philip  could  not  say  when  he  would  be  back,  Jem 

I  determined  to  call  at  the  clinique,  which  was  quite  near, 

1  though  ingeniously  concealed  in  a  maze  of  little  streets. 

1  Edgell  had  been  there  once  before  to  visit  Savigny  at  his 

'  work,  so,  though  the  occasion  was  long  since,  he  begged  the 

eager  Philip  not  to  disturb  himself,  and  retracked  his  way 

to  it  alone.     He  even  remembered  the  position  of  the  side 

;  door,  to  which  the  doctor  had  then  conducted  him,  making 

:  straight,  by  sure  instinct,  for  the  centre  of  operations.    As 

he  expected  on  a  show  morning,  nobody  attempted  to  bar 


394  SUCCESSION 

his  entrance.  This  weekly  consuhation  was  gratuitous,  and 
open  to  the  curious  as  well  as  to  the  regular  patients ;  for 
Savigny's  abiding  desire  was  to  attract  the  middle  and 
lower  classes  to  his  methods,  and  overcome  the  existing 
prejudice  and  suspicion  of  them  by  as  much  publicity  as 
was  consistent  with  the  necessary  regard  for  those  he 
treated.  Now  the  young,  supremely  important  as  they  are 
in  the  community,  can  have  no  very  harrowing  secrets,  and 
are  frequently  less  sensitive  than  their  elders ;  so  it  was 
natural  to  throw  open  the  children's  consultation  to  the 
public  by  preference  to  that  of  the  adults. 

Jem  only  wanted  a  few  words  with  any  authority,  but  he 
found  he  had  to  wait;  for  the  young  man  who  seemed  to 
be  in  charge  of  things  was  engaged.    It  was  what  Savigny's 
staff  called  a  quiet  morning,  by  right  of  the  small  number 
of  those  consulting,  and  the  limited  auditory ;  but  it  was 
quiet  also,  from  the  spectator's  point  of  view,  by  right  of  a 
certain  atmosphere,  sacerdotal  almost,  that  the  doctor  on  : 
the  platform  flung  about  him.     He  sat,  an  elbow  on  the  ; 
table,  his  brow  on  his  hand,  with  an  air  of  still  attention  that 
seemed  to  have   spread  to  the  casual   public,  themselves  ' 
straining  to  hear.    It  was  a  poorly-dressed  old  woman  who  : 
was  being  examined,  and  Bronne's  dark  eyes  left  her  rarely  : 
to  shift  upon  the  child  between  them,  a  small  and  very  sulky 
girl.    The  tale  w^as  of  woe,  of  disgrace,  of  despair,  to  judge 
by  the  woman's  expression  and  gestures,  though  her  voice 
was  low  and  weak.     The  patient,  or  culprit,  or  outcast, 
was  rigid  and  sullenly  apprehensive.     Something  was  to 
be  done  to  her,  she  supposed,  in  this  strange  room,  or  in 
the  next,  where  she  had  already  seen  other  children  enter — 
good  little  things,  accustomed  apparently,  going  to  their ' 
fate.     But  she  was  not  going  to  be  condemned,  whether  to 
punishment  or  perdition,  without  a  struggle.     The  treach- 
erous granny  who  had  seduced  her  there,  the  strange  dark 
man  who  held  her  wrist  and  pierced  her  with  his  melancholy 
eyes,  should  have  reason,  before  the  worst  occurred,  to  , 
regret  their  behaviour.    This  small  virago  was  a  citizen  of 


LETTERS  395 

the  republic,  and  intended  always  to  misbehave  herself,  in 
public  or  in  private,  as  she  chose. 

"  It's  the  confessional,  by  Jove,"  thought  English  Jem, 
having  looked  all  round  the  ugly  room,  and  back  to  the  lit- 
tle group  that  made  the  centre.  "What's  wrong?"  he 
queried  sotto  voce  of  his  neighbour,  a  bearded  youth  with  a 
portfolio  who  might  be  a  student.  He  had  begun  at  once 
to  be  interested,  for  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  seek 
knowledge  of  Savigny's  chosen  ministry. 

"  I  can't  hear  the  crone,"  muttered  the  youth,  annoyed. 
"These  are  all  nervous  cases — the  last  was  filching — what 
do  you  call  it? — kleptomania.  Last  week  there  was  quite 
a  young  one  who  had  delusions,  rather  remarkable.  I  wish 
they  would  speak  up." 

"  They're  ashamed,  I  suppose,"  said  Jem  simply.  "  Is 
Savigny  here?  " 

"  No.  That's  Bronne,  the  second  in  command.  He  has 
an  easy  time  to-day.  Sometimes  there's  quite  a  crowd,  they 
can't  the  least  foresee.  Do  you  know  Savigny  ?  "  Jem 
nodded.  "  He's  coming  to  the  front  now,"  confided  the 
young  man.  "  He'll  have  a  free  hand  with  this  new  place 
at  jMeudon,  they  say.    It's  only  money  that's  wanted." 

"  Ah,"  said  Jem.  "  It  generally  is.  Well,  I'm  glad  he's 
being  recognised,  at  least." 

The  young  man,  casting  glances  at  his  serious  face  side- 
long, speculated  if  he  were  a  parent,  a  former  patient  of  the 
doctor's,  or  merely  the  inquisitive  tourist.  He  was  a  for- 
eigner evidently,  but  the  English  were  known  to  be  inter- 
ested in  experimental  psychology — it  was  one  of  their  few 
strong  points.  They  were  a  credulous,  kind,  rather  child- 
like people,  the  young  man  believed,  to  whom  the  exact 
sciences  were  indifferent.  They  were  easily  tricked  by 
charlatans,  for  example;  they  liked  ideas  quite  apart  from 
their  realisation,  and  rejoiced  in  the  improbable,  even  as  the 
French  revelled  in  the  true.  The  English,  as  everybody 
knew,  saw  ghosts,  and  this  tall  fellow  doubtless  came  to 


396  SUCCESSION 

Savigny's  clinique  in  the  hope  of  spirit-rapping.     To  find 
a  gosse  being  scolded  was  disappointing  for  him. 

The  bearded  young  man  grieved  for  Jem's  disappoint- 
ment. It  would  no  doubt  have  consoled  him  had  he  known 
that  James  was  seeing  ghosts,  from  his  corner  in  this  dull, 
plain,  dusty  room.  The  atmosphere  of  it,  and  the  silence, 
both  invited  visions.  Jem  had  been  far,  thousands  of  miles 
away,  when  his  little  boy  had  been  brought  here;  but  he 
could  picture  it  very  well.  He  had  come  frightened,  sullen 
and  desperate,  doubtless,  like  that  child  by  the  table ;  cling- 
ing to  his  grandfather's  hand,  as  her  poor  little  fingers,  in 
spite  of  all  her  rebellion,  were  fiercely  gripping  her  granny's 
shawl.  It  was  awful,  James  thought,  to  realise  how  chil- 
dren suffer,  and  how  helpless  they  are  to  tell  their  pain.  It 
was  worse  for  the  woman-child,  without  a  doubt ;  far 
worse,  since  all  life  was  hardest  on  women.  And  this  was 
the  place  where  those  ugly,  unpublished  ills  were  attended 
to,  where  some  were  cured.  Jem  had  seen,  in  the  course 
of  his  wanderings,  living  souls  torn  from  shipwreck,  in 
fierce  seas;  but  this  game  of  soul-doctoring  was  greater, 
surely.  Was  it  likely  he  could  ever  forget  the  letter,  stored 
among  his  treasures,  signed  in  Savigny's  scrawl,  which  told 
him  in  beautiful,  cautious  words  that  his  child's  life  and 
reason  were  saved?  He  had  crowned  Savigny  long  since, 
and  seen  in  imagination  this  plain  building  in  a  poor  quar- 
ter as  a  very  heaven  of  healing.  That  young  fellow  with 
his  hand  on  the  child  was  one  of  them  evidently,  this  little  \ 
group  of  beneficent  pioneers.  Jem  watched  Bronne  as  he 
seemed  to  ask  the  child  again  and  again  the  same  question, 
patiently  repeated  for  all  her  shrugs,  set  lips  and  shifty 
eyes. 

"  Tu  ne  veux  pas  me  le  dire,  hein?"  said  Bronne,  and 
after  a  silent  minute  rose.  There  was  an  immediate  stir 
of  interest  in  the  little  company. 

"  Come,"  he  said  absently  almost,  holding  his  hand  out 
to  the  girl.    "  I  have  something  to  show  you." 

His  ease  and  indifference  were  deceptive,  his  tone  pleas- 


LETTERS  397 

ant,  and  for  the  moment  Eve's  daughter  failed  to  recognise 
the  serpent.  He  had  a  strong  warm  hand,  and  slie  slid  her 
little  bony  one  into  it.  She  followed  him  a  short  way  in 
the  direction  of  the  door,  her  grandmother  looking  on  with 
folded  hands,  in  a  kind  of  admiring  apprehension,  Marie- 
Therese  had  rarely  been  managed  as  easily  as  this.  It  was 
a  prodigy.    Aha ! — there ! 

The  pair  were  close  to  Jem,  w^hen  the  young  lady  realised 
of  a  sudden  that  she  was  submitting — and  to  a  recognised 
enemy.  The  enemy  had  inquired  lately  if  she  were  tired, 
and  she  had  denied  it;  for  had  not  her  granny  disclosed 
that  his  plan  was  to  put  her  to  sleep?  She  would  not  sleep. 
She  was  not  sleepy,  far  from  it.  She  was  awake,  capable, 
determined — demoniac  the  instant  that  she  wished  it.  She 
was  mistress  of  her  fate.  Tugging  at  her  imprisoned  hand, 
Marie-Therese  hung  back,  planted  her  feet  firm  and  wide 
apart,  and  "  No — no — no,"  she  reiterated,  with  growing 
and  hysterical  emphasis. 

Her  grandmother,  though  the  doctor  signed  her  back  im- 
peratively, ran  forward  at  once,  and  the  child,  sensible  of 
the  sympathy  implied,  fell  crying  into  her  arms,  confessing 
piteously  though  incoherently,  promising  amendment,  as 
no  doubt  she  had  done  a  hundred  times,  and  so  swayed  the 
soft  hearts  round  her. 

"Do  not  pity  her,"  said  Bronne,  in  warning;  and  then 
louder:  "When  is  her  birthday,  Madame,  did  you  say? 
And  the  age  ?  But  there  are  two  children  in  there  younger 
than  she.  I  had  better  go  to  them,  hein? — since  she  is 
afraid." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  gurgled  Marie-Therese,  her  head  in 
her  grandmother's  shawl.    "  I  am  penitent!  " 

"  Pauvre  cherie,"  said  her  grandmother,  touched.  "  Mon- 
sieur has  made  an  effect — she  repents.  Perhaps,  Monsieur 
— since  she  promises  to  be  a  good  girl — next  week." 

"  Next  week,"  said  Marie-Therese,  thinking  within :  "  No 
— nor  even  next  year." 

Bronne  never  wasted  words.     He  looked  at  his  watch. 


i 


398  SUCCESSION 

and  at  the  door  beyond.  "  It  is  a  week  lost,"  he  uttered, 
crisp  and  low,  to  the  woman.  "  It  is  useless,  as  I  have  told 
you,  if  she  cries.  Persuade  her,  and  soon,  for  I  cannot 
stay."  Then  bending,  he  turned  the  child's  crimson,  sulky 
face  with  his  hand.  "  I  want  you  to  come,"  he  said.  "  We 
shall  not  hurt  you,  as  you  know.  If  you  are  sorry,  soon, 
you  have  only  to  come  and  tell  me  so  quietly ;  and  no  one 
shall  hear  you  say  it."  Jem  saw  the  child's  lips  part  at  that, 
but  she  hid  her  face  again.  Bronne,  having  freed  her,  left 
them  at  once,  and  passed  through  the  unlatched  door. 

Jem  saw  the  students  pack  their  notebooks  and  prepare 
to  leave.  He  supposed  they  might  not  approach  the  inner 
sanctuary,  or  else  had  seen  its  mysteries  already.  The 
consulting-room  cleared  by  degrees,  but  he  did  not  move. 
He  wanted  a  word  with  Bronne  when  he  had  done  with 
his  children,  and  further  Marie-Therese  attracted  him.  One 
of  what  Margot  named  Jem's  capacities  was  for  little  girls ; 
and  he  had  a  part-ownership  in  several,  though  fate  had 
granted  him  none  for  his  own.  At  a  point  in  Marie- 
Therese's  discreet  and  artistic  recovery,  he  caught  her  eye. 
The  actress  bridled,  frowned,  and  looked  away.  Then  she 
looked  again ;  and  presently  she  tried  the  quality  of  Jem's 
rough  coat  with  an  absent  hand.  None  of  her  acquaintance 
wore  coats  like  that ;  and  she  was  eleven,  and  had  seen  a 
number  of  men.  This  one  spoke  to  her,  with  a  somewhat 
amusing  accent  on  accustomed  words ;  and  she  had  no  ob- 
jection, by  way  of  variety,  to  being  taken  on  his  knee. 
From  that  elevation,  she  could  test  the  smell  of  his  sleeve, 
which  was  singular,  and  needed  leisure  to  define.  Marie- 
Therese,  being  a  Parisian,  was  able  to  define  it  later;  at 
the  time  she  had  sufficient  leisure  over  to  unbend  grace- 
fully to  Jem's  advances. 

"  Perhaps  your  granny  is  waiting,"  suggested  Jem,  after 
a  little  deliberate  dallying. 

"  Oh,  she  is  not  going  yet,"  said  the  child.  Granny,  at 
this  clear  indication,  sat  down. 


LETTERS  399 

"  She  hopes  I  shall  go  in  there,"  Marie-Thcrese  observed. 
It  was  a  daring  advance,  but  she  liked  to  be  daring. 

"  I  am  also  hoping  that,"  said  the  stranger,  in  confidence. 

"  Me  to  go  ?  " — very  sharply. 

"  To  go  myself.    I  am  hoping  to  have  permission." 

"  Bah !  "  said  Marie-Therese,  in  disdain.  "  Why  don't 
you  walk  straight  in  ? '' 

"  Pas  permis,"  said  Jem,  shaking  his  head.  "  The  rule 
is,  somebody  must  take  me." 

"  What  somebody  ?  " 

"  Anyone  on  business,"  replied  Jem. 

^larie-Therese  considered  the  position.  "  How  do  you 
know,"  she  asked,  "about  the  rule?" 

"  I  asked  that  young  man." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Jem  watched  her  wide  eyes 
fastened  on  the  door.  Curiosity,  cunning,  fear — horror, 
too ;  good,  evil,  and  sheer  weariness — vague  shades  of  each 
in  turn.  And  what  a  thin  little  neck  it  was,  what  an  uncer- 
tain, trembling  lip,  what  nervous,  grimy  little  hands. 

"  /  will  take  you,"  said  IMarie-Therese,  in  a  low  tone, 
rather  faint.    "  Moi,  je  vous  conduirai." 

"  Good,"  said  Jem,  without  emotion.  "  Blow  your  nose 
first,  my  dear,  won't  you?  " 

Marie-Therese  did  so,  her  grandmother  w^atching  in  awe, 
wide-eyed.  A  mere  sign  from  the  strange  man  had  kept 
her  silent,  though  she  was  bursting  with  contained  con- 
fidence. 

"Come  along,"  said  Jem.     "  Shall  I  carry  you?" 

Marie-Therese  put  up  her  arms,  and  without  a  word  he 
carried  her  through  the  barrier,  to  the  other  side. 

The  doctor  turned  to  take  her,  not  a  whit  surprised.  He 
barely  spoke,  though  he  just  answered  Jem's  smile  with 
another  as  slight.  The  silence  within  the  magic  doors  was 
more  weird,  more  impressive,  than  the  silence  without. 
Yet  it  was  only  a  little  company  of  children,  sleeping,  and 
a  few  white-aproned  attendants  moving  among  them. 

"  Will  you  stay  ?  "  said  Bronne,  in  a  lowered  voice. 


400  SUCCESSION 

"  Can  I,  for  an  instant?  " 

"Certainly.  What  name?"  His  hand  lay  on  an  open 
book  by  the  door, 

"  Edgell,"  said  Jem,  and  marked  the  change  of  counte- 
nance. Dr  Bronne  pushed  the  book  away,  nodded,  and 
went  about  his  business. 

"What's  the  crime?"  said  Jem,  some  five  minutes  later, 
as  he  and  Bronne  stood  over  the  sleeping  Marie-Therese. 
She  looked  as  young  and  sweet  as  any  child  in  the  cradles 
of  the  better-born — and  of  the  less  exposed.  The  doctor 
related  a  tale  of  infantile  misdoing,  and  grimy  little  habits ; 
and  again  it  might  have  seemed  a  commonplace,  and  he 
indifferent,  but  for  his  grave  eyes. 

"What  do  you  do  then — educate?     Suggest?" 

"  One  may  suggest.     It  does  no  harm." 

"  No  harm,  no,"  said  Jem,  pleased  by  his  moderation. 
"  Your  cure  is  rather  monotonous  work."  For  he  had 
watched  their  proceedings  a  little. 

"  Well — so  is  education.  I  think,"  said  Louis,  looking 
thoughtfully  round  his  flock,  "  that  I  may  go  now." 

"  You  trust  the  suggestion  to  others  ?  "  said  Jem,  sur- 
prised. 

"  That  is  the  least  part,  when  they  have  been  instructed. 
Will  you  excuse  me?"  He  stepped  aside,  and  touched  a 
lady  assistant — the  only  woman,  Jem  had  been  astonished 
to  note,  among  the  visible  staff.  "  Mademoiselle  Clemence," 
said  Bronne,  "may  I  present  M.  Edgell?  You  will  remem- 
ber Antoine." 

The  lady  did.  She  wore  glasses,  and  looked  herself  worn 
and  delicate. 

"This  is  Monsieur  his  father?  He  speaks  French?" 
she  queried.  "  The  case  was  not  my  charge.  Monsieur," 
she  explained  to  Jem.  "  There  was  but  one  week  I  took 
care  of  the  little  one  at  nights.  Then  M.  Savigny  replaced 
me." 

"Were  you  reckoned  too  kind?"  asked  Jem,  blunt  as 
usual. 


LETTERS  401 

"  I  was  not  strong  enough,"  she  said  simply. 

"  That  is  a  defect,  in  Savigny's  eyes,"  said  Bronne. 

*'  And  rightly,"  said  the  nurse.  She  was  diverted  by  her 
duties  and  quitted  them  without  apology.  On  leaving  the 
room  finally,  Jem  spoke  to  her  in  passing. 

"  Shall  I  give  my  boy  any  message  ?  "  he  said.  Mile. 
Clemence  looked  round. 

"  Useless — no,"  she  said,  with  her  tired  smile.  "  He 
could  not  remember  me." 

"  He's  a  good  memory,"  said  Jem. 

"  So  much  the  worse,  for  it  would  be  a  distorted  image. 
He  was  too  ill,  you  see.  Monsieur." 

When  they  were  outside,  Bronne  said,  taking  off  his 
apron  in  the  empty  consulting-room :  "  She  is  an  excellent 
nurse;  but  Savigny  lets  the  women  get  no  chance.  In  her 
case,  I  think  it  is  a  pity." 

"  She  looks  more  like  a  patient  herself,"  said  Jem. 

"  She  was  one,  in  the  early  days.  She  is  actually  a  re- 
markable cure — what  some  I  know  would  call  a  miracle." 

"  Do  not  you  ?  " 

"  Savigny  is  no  saint,"  said  Bronne.  He  was  washing 
his  hands,  still  very  serious.  "  He  has  methods  saints 
would  not  approve.  I  am  sorry  he  is  out,  sir.  I  suppose 
you  came  hoping  to  find  him." 

Jem  admitted  it.  He  asked  if  Savigny  would  be  back 
before  three,  his  limit.    The  assistant  shook  his  head. 

"  I  persuaded  him  to  take  a  holiday,  if  it  can  be  called  so. 
He  has  a  rage  just  now  for  building  and  sanitation  methods. 
The  new  place  is  to  be  a  model  in  those  ways."  After  a 
pause,  Bronne  added  at  leisure:  "He  would  have  picked 
your  brains,  had  he  been  here." 

"The  compliment  would  have  been  mutual,"  said  Jem. 
"  I  came  to  pick  his,  as  it  hap])ens." 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  can  help  you,"  said  Bronne.  He  had 
a  certain  almost  awkward  modesty,  pleasing  to  the  older 
man,  combined  as  it  was  with  his  evident  ability.  "  I  am 
going  to  have  lunch  now.  Would  you  care  to  come  out  with 
me?" 


402  SUCCESSION 

"  I  promised  the  boy  up  there,"  said  Jem.  "  However, 
he  can  wait  a  bit." 

Philip  did  not  weigh  on  his  mind.  He  walked  slowly 
with  Bronne  in  the  direction  of  the  neighbouring  boulevard, 
talking  idly.  Jem  had  a  capacity  for  idling  on  an  instant's 
notice,  when  he  found  a  pleasant  fellow.  He  had  found 
them  in  every  part  of  the  world,  according  to  his  need.  It 
was  only  regrettable  that  the  choicest  sorts  had  generally 
so  little  time  to  waste. 

"I  don't  remember  you,"  he  opened  fire  in  the  street. 
"  Weren't  you  on  the  spot  when  my  son  was  brought 
here?" 

"  I  did  not  know  Antoine  then.    I  have  met  him  since." 

"  Not  been  here  so  long  yourself  ?  "  suggested  Jem. 

"  Yes,  for  seven  years.  And  for  three  I  have  been  super- 
intendent of  the  pension.  But  your  son  was  Savigny's 
patient.  Consequently,"  said  Louis,  "  I  never  saw  him  till 
he  was  practically  well." 

"Does  he  keep  them  as  close  as  that?"  asked  Jem, 
amused. 

"  We  may  not  approach  him,  when  he  is  experimenting. 
I  merely  heard  it  was  an  interesting  case,  and  gathered  it 
was  a  young  one.  I  never  knew  till  afterwards,"  said 
Bronne,  "  either  the  boy's  danger,  or  the  fact  that  he  was 
Lemaure's  grandson.     It  explained  various  things." 

"Had  the  chief  been  short  with  you?"  said  Jem,  still 
amused  by  these  out-of-school  disclosures. 

"  Savigny,  you  mean?  He  was  wild — for  several  days. 
I  was  almost  afraid  for  his  own  sanity,  when  he  thought 
he  was  failing.  He  would  never  forgive  me,"  added  Bronne, 
"  if  he  knew  I  had  said  that." 

"What  does  it  matter,"  said  Jem,  "so  long  as  he  did 
not  fail?" 

"  That's  what  I  think."  There  was  a  pause,  the  engineer 
wondering  if  he  could  open  the  question  of  the  boy's  present 
condition  with  this  evidently  sensible  young  man:  Bronne 
himself  thinking  of  quite  other  matters.     He  had  his  ideas 


LETTERS  403 

about  Antoine  truly,  but  it  was  Savigny's  affair.  It  was 
part  of  the  system  to  which  he  had  been  trained,  that  they 
never  meddled  with  one  another's  patients  unless  definitely 
charged  to  do  so.  Bronne  resumed  after  a  pause,  on  his 
own  line  of  thought.  "  However,"  he  said,  "  it  might  be 
classed  as  an  unsaintly  weakness,  that  we  are  not  allowed 
to  mention  Savigny's  failures  in  front  of  him.  Of  course, 
there  must  be  some — many,  in  the  kind  of  cases  we  take 
here,  which  are  half  of  them  other  people's  failures  already. 

Talking  of  that,  I  wonder,  sir,  if  I  might  venture " 

He  hesitated.    "  This  seems  a  chance." 

"  Venture  away,"  said  Jem. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Antoine.  His  letter  was  confidential ; 
but  he  probably  confides  also  in  you." 

It  seemed  a  question.  Jem,  still  thinking  only  of  the 
boy,  stared  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then,  adjusting  his 
thoughts,  he  remembered.  "  There !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
knew  I  had  heard  your  name  before.  It  was  to  you  he 
wrote  that  day.  I  stuck  the  letter  in  the  post  and  never 
thought  again.  It  was  about  that  unfortunate  young  fel- 
low— Charretteur." 

"  You  know,  then.  That  is  right.  I  have  done  my  best 
to  get  at  him.  I  washed  to  follow  Antoine's  directions,  as 
I  told  him,  but  I  have  been  baulked  altogether  by  the 
police." 

"The  police?"  Jem  queried.  "How  do  they  come  in? 
I  kept  the  young  fellow's  name  out  of  the  reports,  ex- 
pressly.   Antoine  told  me  to." 

"  I  supposed  he  would,"  said  Bronne.  "  Indeed,  I  heard 
so  from  M.  Philippe.  But  he  was  tracked  all  the  same  to 
his  address,  had  warning  just  in  time,  and  left  it.  Now  he 
is  naturally  suspicious  of  everybody,  and  will  not  tell  me 
his  lodging,  though  I  have  seen  him  once." 

"  You  have  seen  him  ?  " 

"  For  a  few  minutes  only.  He  was  engaged  in  his  busi- 
ness, and  we  could  not  converse  freely,  for  there  were 
people  close  upon  us." 


404  SUCCESSION 

"  What  business  ?  "  demanded  Jem.  "  You'll  excuse  me, 
but  Antoine's  fashion  of  informing  is  erratic.  He  leaves 
out  the  useful  things." 

"  So  he  would,  but  this  is  rather  picturesque  as  well.  I 
learnt  from  his  second  letter  that  Charretteur  plays  at  a 
certain  cafe  in  a  poor  quarter  of  the  city.  Yes  " — he  cut  off 
Jem's  ejaculation — "  he  has  gone  down  in  the  world,  lost 
his  vogue,  ruined  himself,  if  you  will.  He  is  very  well 
otherwise,  he  told  me,  and  lively." 

"Well?"  Jem  repeated,  somewhat  at  sea. 

"  He  was  an  interne  here,  in  the  summer.  Dear  me,  did 
Antoine  omit  that?  I  asked  after  his  health — from  me  it 
was  a  natural  inquiry." 

"  Ah  1 "  Jem  recollected  his  informant  had  implied  that 
the  missing  criminal  was  a  reclaimed  inebriate.  One  had 
to  get  the  doctor's  point  of  view,  in  these  matters.  "  May 
I  ask  if  you  pushed  the  inquiry  further  ?  " 

"  I  asked  his  address,  as  I  said,  and  did  not  get  it.  He 
rather  enjoys  dodging  the  police.  He  is  naturally  anxious 
not  to  be  brought  up,  for  it  would  ruin  his  chances — such 
as  are  left  him.    Antoine  saw  that  as  well." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Jem.  He  stopped  in  the  road,  for  they 
had  reached  the  doctor's  lunching  quarters.  *'  You  will 
excuse  me,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  soft  hat,  and  passing  a 
hand  across  his  hair.  "  I  daresay  I  seem  pedantic.  Did 
you  gather  the  young  fellow  had  the  violin  ?  " 

"The  violin?"  M.  Bronne  stopped  too.  "  Oh— I  did 
not  ask  him,  sir." 

"You  didn't  allude  to  it?    It's  rather  interesting  to  us." 

"  We  were  conversing  as  ordinary  acquaintance,"  ex- 
plained Bronne.  "  And  we  had  a  limited  time — ten  minutes 
I  think  they  allow  at  those  places — at  our  disposal.  I 
might  have  been  addressing  him  on  the  treadmill,  and  both 
of  us  riddled  with  eyes.  I  supposed,  if  he  could  have  been 
of  any  use  in  your  affair,  he  would  have  communicated 
direct." 

"  Just  so.     Well,  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  lunch." 


LETTERS  405 

Jem  uprooted  the  stick  he  seemed  to  have  planted  in  the 
pavement.  His  eyes  travelled  over  Louis  once.  "  There's 
a  pair  of  you,"  he  said,  in  apparent  admiration. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  Bronne  smiled,  for  the 
phrase  had  been  in  English. 

"  I  mean — you  and  my  younger  son  are  hand  in  glove. 
I  might  have  guessed  it." 

"  I  have  a  respect  for  Antoine's  judgment,"  admitted  Dr 
Bronne.  "  Though,  owing  to  Savigny,  I  see  him  rarely,  I 
sometimes  think  Savigny  himself  might  respect  him  more." 

"  Ha  !    Is  Raymond  against  the  young  fellow  ?  " 

"  Flatly  against.  I  may  not  mention  him.  If  you  re- 
member, that  was  how  we  entered  on  the  subject." 

"  Good  Lord,  yes."  Jem  arrived  slowly.  "  You're  too 
smart  for  me.     He's  a  failure,  is  he?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Bronne  earnestly.  "  But  he  is  regarded 
as  such,  because  he  would  not  stop  out  the  cure.  Feeling 
stronger,  he  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  bolted." 

"  Was  that  all?  "  said  Jem. 

"  Not  quite  all,"  said  Bronne.  "  Before  that,  he  had 
been  high-handed.     He  sneered  at  Savigny." 

"  I  say!    Couldn't  you  correct  that,  among  you?" 

"  I  tried,  once,"  said  Louis.  "  But  I  fear  he  was  not  per- 
suaded." 

On  that,  Jem  remembered  the  claims  of  the  indignant 
Philip,  and  Bronne  those  of  his  hunger;  and  they  parted 
promptly,  though  in  a  cordial  fashion.  The  result  was, 
that  Mr  Edgell  never  learnt  what  form  the  "  persuasion  " 
had  taken;  which  was  a  pity.  For  he  had  thought  the 
young  doctor,  generally  speaking,  too  demure ;  and  he 
would  certainly  have  liked  him  better  for  the  incident. 


CHAPTER   XV 

TRAGEDY   PROCEEDS 

"  Would  Monsieur  mind  going?  "  said  Margot  softly.  "  It 
is  a  young  man." 

Philip  lifted  his  head  with  a  jerk.  All  voices  in  the  house 
were  hushed  just  now,  but  tones  seemed  to  acquire  the 
greater  significance.  It  was  the  end  of  a  wet  and  dreary 
Christmas  day;  and  as  the  light  failed  early,  towards  five 
o'clock,  Philip  had  sought  refuge  in  the  kitchen,  driven 
from  all  posts  of  dignity  at  last  by  sheer  dread  of  solitude. 
Margot's  solid  accustomed  presence  was  comforting  in  the 
incredible  blank  the  world  had  become  since  his  grand- 
father's voice  had  ceased ;  the  light  of  her  little  lamp  was 
sufficient  for  his  young  eyes  to  read  by,  and  the  warmth  of 
her  hearth  was  grateful  in  the  chill  that  had  fallen  since  the 
frost  definitely  turned  to  rain. 

"  Oh,  I  can't,"  he  said,  frowning.  *'  What  is  the  good 
of  their  coming  all  the  time?  The  concierge  might  see  to 
it.  They  can  sit  at  home  and  watch  the  papers  like  the  rest. 
That's  the  only  decent  way." 

"This  one  was  not  about  Monsieur,"  said  Margot 
meekly.  "  He  asked  for  M.  Edgell.  But  he  stammered, 
and  would  not  give  his  message." 

"  Stammered  ?  "  said  Philip.  He  threw  his  book  on  the 
table  and  went  out  to  the  door.  There  he  faced  a  man  al- 
most as  tall  and  quite  as  thin  as  himself,  his  form  and  face 
dark  against  the  glimmer  of  light  on  the  staircase.  An  old 
violin-case  occupied  one  hand. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip  haughtily,  sure  with  a  prompt 
406 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  407 

British  instinct  of  the  class  of  the  visitor.    "  What  do  you 
want  ?  " 

"  N-nothing  with  you,"  said  the  visitor,  shying  Hke  a 
wild  animal  at  his  appearance.  "  Isn't  he  there  then  ? 
What  did  she  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Philip,  who  had  had  painfully  to  realise  the 
existence  of  another  M.  Edgell  in  the  world.  "  You  want 
my  brother,  do  you  ?    What  about  ?  " 

The  visitor  stared  at  him  out  of  the  twilight  with  nar- 
rowed eyes ;  then  he  twitched  a  little  forward.  "  What  a 
precious  fuss  you  make,"  he  muttered  roughly.  "  Let  me 
come  in.     Is  he  ill?  " 

"  No,"  said  Philip,  gripping  the  door  to  guard  it.  "  My 
grandfather  is  ill — dying,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"  Oh !  "  The  visitor  seemed  taken  aback.  "  Where's  the 
gosse,  then  ?  " 

"  He's  still  in  England.  He  will  probably  be  here  to- 
morrow." 

"  Why  isn't  he  here  now  ?  "  persisted  the  young  man, 
still  with  extreme  suspicion.  It  seemed  Philip  was  not 
being  so  impressive  as  he  imagined.  "  I  saw  little  Lemaure 
in  the  boulevard,  I  am  sure." 

1      "  My  uncle  has  been  here  three  days,"  said  Philip. 
I     "You  mean  he  left  him  behind?"  snapped  the  peculiar 
visitor. 

"  There  was  another  engagement,  for  the  twenty-fourth, 
so  my  brother  stayed  behind  to  finish,  naturally.  He  was 
to  come  with  my  aunt  to-morrow,  if  they  couldn't  get 
across  to-night.  She  has  wired  that  they  can't.  If  you  tell 
me  what  you  want,"  said  Philip,  with  an  expression  of 
dignity  and  disgust,  "  I'll  ask  him.  But  I  can't  answer  for 
his  replying  very  promptly,  in  this  state  of  things." 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  unoffended,  and  seemed  to  reflect. 
He  gazed  at  Philip  while  he  reflected,  and  had  not  the 
seriousness  of  Philip's  situation  been  so  overwhelming,  he 
might  have  suspected  a  faint  light  of  amusement  in  the 
gaze.     "He'll  have  plenty  to  think  about,  won't  he?     One 


I 


4o8  SUCCESSION 

could  keep  it  till  the  New  Year — that's  only  a  few  days 
more."  He  had  stopped  staring  now,  and  was  looking 
downward.  "  Can  you  give  me  a  bit  of  bread  ?  "  he  inquired 
suddenly. 

"  Bread?  "  said  Philip,  gaping  almost,  doubtful  if  he  had 
heard  right ;  for  however  poor  the  visitor  looked,  his  tone 
was  not  that  of  a  beggar. 

"  Th-that's  what  I  asked  for,"  he  assented.  "  I  forget 
the  English  word.  It's  no  matter,  though;  don't  disturb 
yourself."  And  with  that  he  turned  and  slunk  off,  so 
swiftly  and  silently  that  Philip,  who  was  still  regarding  him 
with  blank  amazement,  hardly  heard  a  sound. 

"  I  say !  "  The  boy  sprang  forward,  as  a  conviction 
flashed  into  him.    "  I  say — are  you  Charretteur  ?  " 

It  was  too  late  to  recall  him,  for  the  young  man  was  al- 
ready beyond  his  reach;  but  Philip  the  detective  was  not 
to  be  baffled  so  easily.  He  was  lightly  made,  and  quicker 
on  his  feet  than  Jacques;  and  leaping  downstairs,  he  was 
on  him  before  he  attained  the  next  landing. 

"  You've  got  it,"  he  ejaculated,  in  a  righteous  fury.  "  It's 
ours — ^give  it  here."  Charretteur  tried  to  dodge  him,  and 
was  instantly  grappled.  The  pair  struggled  a  moment,  try- 
ing to  trip  one  another  in  the  half-light;  but  Philip  was 
more  practised  at  the  game,  and  Jacques  soon  abandoned 
the  effort  of  resistance.  "  Give  it  up  at  once,"  repeated 
Philip,  gasping.     "  It's  our  property !  " 

The  prisoner  laughed  at  his  excitement,  a  grating  laugh 
that  was  not  disagreeable  really,  though  his  opponent  bris- 
tled at  the  sound.  He  was  quite  passive  now,  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  he  seemed  half  to  relish  the  situation. 
The  young  Englishman  had  pinned  him  truly,  but  it  was 
quite  another  thing  to  get  the  violin  away.  He  laughed 
anew  as  Philip  tried.  His  hand  of  steel  was  clenched  on  it, 
and  no  effort  of  the  boy's  was  sufficient  to  unlock  a  finger. 

"It's  yours,  is  it?"  he  gibed.  "Well,  it's  in  my  case, 
and  that  I  retain.    You're  wasting  time,  I  should  say.    Go 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  409 

for  the  police,  come.  Shout  for  the  concierge  to  lielp,  you'd 
better." 

Philip  would  have  followed  the  latter  suggestion  prob- 
ably, but  before  he  could  shout  another  voice  broke  in,  so 
stern  as  to  recall  him,  with  something  of  a  shock,  to  present 
things  he  had  forgotten.  Savigny,  who  had  almost  lived 
with  the  Leinaures  of  late,  was  mounting  slowly  to  his  self- 
imposed  charge,  with  a  somewhat  exhausted  step.  As  his 
tall  form  darkened  the  stairway  turn,  Philip  ejaculated  an 
appeal  for  help. 

"  What  noise  is  this  ?  "  said  Savigny,  with  intense  dis- 
pleasure, though  his  cutting  voice  was  low.  "  Philip,  what 
are  you  thinking  of,  skirmishing  here?     Let  go  at  once." 

Philip  did  so.  There  were  few  people  in  the  world  he 
obeyed  more  promptly  than  Savigny ;  only  the  captive  he 
so  released  did  not  move.  Jacques  still  stood,  supported 
by  the  wall  against  which  he  leant,  staring  at  this  vision  of 
the  tyrant,  more  terrible  than  he  had  ever  been,  with  his 
exhausted  voice  and  drawn  face ;  for  the  nights  of  vigil  at 
his  friend's  side,  voluntarily  undertaken,  had  left  their 
mark. 

"  Is  that  you,  Charretteur  ?  "  he  demanded  in  his  turn. 
The  shadows  were  deepening  at  the  point  where  the  boys 
blocked  the  stairway,  and  Jacques'  gaunt  form,  purposely 
immovable,  was  hard  to  distinguish  from  them.  "  What 
are  you  here  for,  at  such  a  time  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Jacques,  and  his  voice  seemed  petrified 
as  well. 

"  It's  the  violin — maman's,"  said  Philip,  with  a  note  of 
appeal.  "  He  has  got  it  there,  I'm  sure,  though  it's  not  the 
case." 

"  How  are  you  sure?  "  said  Savigny,  crushing  him  coldly 
in  turn.  "  You  would  not  recognise  it  if  you  saw  it,  would 
you?  I  know  this  gentleman,  as  it  happens.  Go  back,  and 
1  leave  me  to  talk  to  him." 

Philip,  having  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  obeyed.  As 
he  reclimbed  the  stairs  he  had  raced  down,  his  excitement 


4IO  SUCCESSION 

died  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen.  He  might  have  made  a 
fool  of  himself,  of  course,  he  reflected  in  some  disgust. 
Charretteur  was  a  violinist  himself,  after  all,  and  so  might 
be  allowed  to  carry  an  instrument.  He  could  not  imagine 
now  how  he  had  had  the  idea  so  strongly;  but  something 
in  the  fellow's  scoffing  manner,  and  the  cool  stare  of  his 
eyes,  had  stirred  him.  It  had  been  like  the  sudden  un- 
reasoning scuffle  of  two  dogs ;  and  Philip  felt  sure,  if  they 
met,  it  would  happen  again. 

When  the  boy  had  gone,  the  doctor  turned  silently,  and 
led  the  way  to  a  lower  landing.  Jacques  followed,  slink- 
ing, his  eyes  ready  for  any  opening  of  escape. 

"  Now,"  said  Savigny,  facing  round,  "  we  can  talk  more 
freely  here.    Whom  did  you  come  to  see  ?  " 
"  Not  you,"  said  Jacques. 

"The  boy,  eh?  What  did  you  want  with  him?"  No 
answer.    Jacques'  eyes  avoided  his. 

"Whose  property  are  you  carrying?"  Savigny  pursued. 
"  Your  own?  " 

"  I  d-dare  you  to  touch  it,"  snarled  Jacques. 
"  Leave  swaggering,"  said  Savigny.    "  Did  you  steal  it?  " 
"  I  stole  it,  yes,"  said  Jacques.    "  I  came  to  bring  it  back." 
"Why?" 

"  Christmas  present,"  Jacques  explained.  "  I  thought  it 
was  about  his  turn." 

"Why?"  Savigny  repeated  inexorably. 
"  Bah — because  he  wants  it,  of  course.     He  '  ratait '  in 
London,  the  young  one — missed  the  note.    That's  for  want 
of  an  instrument  he  knows,  very  likely."    Jacques  stopped, 
for  the  doctor's  eyes  on  him  were  terrible. 

"Broke  down— the  child?  Who  told  you  so?  What 
are  you  talking  of?  " 

"  Someone  I  know  told  me.    I  daresay  he  hasn't  boasted 
of  it,"  growled  Charretteur.    "  You  don't." 
"  What  were  you  told  ?  "  said  Savigny. 
"  Only  he  broke  right  off,  at  the  last  recital,  and  cried 
after.    It's  n-no  fun,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Jacques. 


I  TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  411 

"  Do  you  mean  last  night?  " 

"  No — last  night  was  nothing.  The  big  one  a  week  back. 
Before  little  Lemaure  left — he  must  know  of  it.  They're 
all  over  now,  thank  goodness,"  said  Jacques.  "  That's 
why  I  came  to-day.    He  ought  to  be  here." 

His  eagerness  was  very  curious.  Savigny  was  silent, 
adjusting  his  ideas. 

"  He's  ill  in  London,  is  he?  "  said  Jacques.  "  Mysteries 
about  nothing — doctors  are  all  the  same." 

"  Antoine  is  perfectly  well,"  said  Savigny  coldly.  "  Give 
that  thing  to  me.  I  will  give  it  him  to-morrow  when  he 
comes." 

"  No,"  retorted  Jacques  still  eagerly.  "  He'll  not  mind 
my  keeping  it  a  day  or  two  longer.  You  have  to  be  quiet 
now,  don't  you?    He  can't  play." 

"  You'll  disappear  again,"  said  Savigny,  He  thought, 
for  one  moment,  that  the  man's  manner  did  not  fit  with  his 
story ;  but  he  was  incapable  of  giving  the  thing  such  atten- 
tion as  was  necessary  to  distinguish  the  exact  shade  of  lies ; 
for  the  main  current  of  his  thoughts,  of  his  life  almost, 
was  running  in  that  sick-room  up  the  stairs.  Under  the 
stress  of  the  distraction  he  had  to  act  on  habit,  and  he  found 
it  simpler  to  ride  Jacques  down  by  his  will,  than  to  test  his 
statements. 

"  I'll  not,"  Jacques  promised  him.  "  I  only  did  it  while 
the  police  were  fumbling.  They're  such  fools,  you  know, 
ril  be  found  at  my  address." 

"  Who  has  your  address?  " 

"  The  gosse,  of  course ;   and  your  tame  cat  Bronne." 

"  You're  lying,"  said  Savigny,  moving  a  little.  "  Bronne 
said  he  did  not  know  it." 

"  He's  lying,  then,"  laughed  Jacques.  "  You  force  people 
to  lie.    I've  noticed  it." 

"  I  am  wanted  above,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  cannot  trust 
you,  Charretteur,  or  stay  to  argue  on  such  lines.  Give  me 
that  violin." 


412  SUCCESSION 

"  L-leave  it,"  stammered  Jacques  excitably.  "  If  you 
take  it,  I'll  make  a  disturbance  here,  I  swear." 

"  You  will  not,"  said  Savigny.  "  You  will  not  venture. 
The  man  who  is  dying  in  the  house  is  a  friend  to  musicians, 
great  and  small." 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that?  He  would  have  let 
me  in — treated  me  like  a  man.     He  did  before." 

"  It  is  for  his  sake,"  said  Savigny,  "  that  I  do  not  treat 
you  now  like  a  criminal.    Give  it  to  me,  and  go." 

"  I  won't,"  reiterated  Jacques.  "  It's  Antoine's,  it's  not 
yours.  It's  fair  I  should  give  it  him — it's  only  fair."  He 
tried  with  a  sudden  twist  to  get  by  on  the  narrow  landing, 
but  it  was  fruitless — the  effort  spent  as  soon  as  made.  He 
felt  his  courage  crumbling,  his  forces  leaking  away,  before 
the  silent  doctor,  with  his  altered  face  and  strange  eyes, 
who  gazed  at  him  from  the  gloom.  Savigny  was  sure  of 
himself  absolutely — Jacques  was  not.  There  could  be  but 
one  end  to  it. 

"  You  c-coward !  "  jerked  Jacques,  almost  with  a  sob. 
"  Take  it  then,  and  be  damned  to  your  principles.  At  least 
you've  stolen  it  too." 

With  that,  as  the  relentless  gaze  dropped  at  last  to  the 
thing  he  offered,  he  got  past  the  doctor  stumbling,  feeling 
for  the  stairs,  and  an  instant  after  vanished  round  the 
corner  like  a  shade. 

Dr  Savigny  went  on  and  upward  slowly,  Henriette's 
violin  clasped  in  his  hand.  He  might  have  felt  triumph  in 
reclaiming  it,  but  he  did  not;  perhaps  because  the  hour 
permitted  no  intrusion  of  joy;  perhaps  because  that  form 
of  triumph  had  become  to  him  so  tasteless.  He  only  felt 
dissatisfied  to  sickness  with  a  life  that  supplied  these 
triumphs  alone,  and  wearier  even  than  before. 

M.  Lucien  was  in  his  room,  Margot  said,  so  he  went 
straight  to  the  door  and  knocked  guardedly.  Lucien  came 
to  the  door  with  a  hasty  step. 

"  I  sent  the  boy  in,"  he  said,  as  though  in  self-defence. 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  413 

"  since  it  seemed  to  me  he  wanted  him.  Otherwise  there 
has  been  no  change,  Raymond." 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  doctor,  giving  him  a  passing 
glance.  It  was  so  unhke  Lucien  to  excuse  his  proceedings. 
The  younger  Lemaure  was  of  a  type  that  shows  fatigue  or 
distress  but  little,  since  his  sharp  little  face  had  at  all  times 
deep  lines  upon  it.  But  he  looked  fagged  for  all  that,  and 
rather  dull,  as  though  his  habitual  energy  of  mind  had  de- 
serted him,  and  he  barely  knew  where  to  turn.  He  seemed 
to  wish  to  guard  his  privacy,  but  Savigny  pushed  his  gaunt 
form  brusquely  through. 

"Lucien,  will  you  examine  this?  On  my  life,  I  can't 
now  feel  sure  the  slippery  young  cub  has  not  been  fooling 
me."  He  laid  the  case  down,  and  sank  on  a  chair,  passing 
a  hand  across  his  brow.  "Is  it  right?"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  Lucien  had  said  no  word;  only  his  clever  fingers 
acted  mechanically  for  him,  and  he  had  the  thing  out  of 
its  shabby  case  in  the  least  possible  time,  and  examined  it, 
turning  it  this  way  and  that,  his  brows  intent. 

"  It  is  ours,"  he  declared,  and  laid  it  down.  "  Raymond, 
I  thank  you  for  all  of  us.  I  own  I  had  lost  all  hope  of 
seeing  it  again."  His  tone  expressed  the  necessary  emotion 
and  surprise,  for  Lucien  was  a  Lemaure  and  acted  ade- 
quately to  the  occasion.  But  his  eyes  remained  distrait, 
and  the  doctor  saw  how  little  the  thing  of  wood  had  be- 
come to  him.  Lucien  would  barely  have  struck  a  blow  for 
it  lately,  like  Philip.  His  interest  was  his  father's,  the 
essence  of  it  had  vanished  with  his.  Lucien's  mind  was  a 
curious  study,  just  now,  for  the  psychologist. 

"  It  cost  me  an  effort,  I  admit,"  said  the  doctor.  "  But 
I  had  it  from  the  hands  of  the  thief." 

"From  Charretteur?  " 

"  Yes."  He  told  the  story,  very  cleverly,  and  it  stirred 
Lucien  a  little,  as  he  intended.  At  least  his  sunken  eyes, 
fastened  on  the  narrator,  showed  some  of  their  wonted 
spark. 

"  Queer,"  he  admitted  briefly,  at  Savigny's  appeal ;   then 


414  SUCCESSION 

remained  silent  for  a  space,  his  eyes  on  the  recovered  violin, 
as  though  there  must  be  something  further  to  say  on  the 
subject,  if  only  he  could  find  it.  "  The  child  will  be 
pleased,"  was  the  result  of  the  search.  "  One  might  keep 
it  to  give  him  for  the  fete,  eh?  One  is  still  young  enough 
to  appreciate  that — and  he  will  have  little  else." 

Savigny  approved  his  kindness  and  his  conscience. 
"  That,"  he  said,  "  was  also  M.  Charretteur's  idea.  Chez 
lui,  it  struck  me  as  amusing." 

Lucien  made  an  effort.  "  Of  course,"  he  said,  rousing  a 
little,  "  I  always  knew  he  was  the  culprit.  Only  the  boy 
was  so  obstinately  on  his  side  that  neither  I  nor  James 
dared  accuse  him  openly." 

"You  did  in  private,  eh?  Was  it  you  set  the  police  on 
his  track?" 

"  It  was  absurd,"  said  Lucien,  not  answering  directly. 
"  It  was  our  affair  to  judge,  since  the  loss  was  ours." 

"  The  loss  was  Edgell's,"  observed  the  doctor,  "  since  the 
boy  is  under  age.  How  did  you  get  Charretteur's  ad- 
dress? " 

"  I  suggested  they  should  go  to  Ribiera,  when  Antoine 
refused  to  speak.  Ribiera  was  ready  enough  to  help,  and 
by  no  means  astonished  at  the  charge ;  in  fact,  he  added  to 
it  freely,  and  called  the  world  to  witness,  in  his  fashion." 

"  Ha!    It  got  talked  of,  did  it,  in  your  circles?  " 

Lucien  shrugged.  "  I  was  in  London,  In  any  case,  Char- 
retteur  had  long  since  lost  his  character." 

"  His  character  is  a  remarkable  one,"  said  Savigny,  "  if 
you  want  my  opinion.  He  confessed  to  being  a  thief  with- 
out an  eyelash  moving." 

"  He  has  no  moral  sense,"  said  Lucien, 

"That  is  what  Louis  Bronne  denies.  What  was  his 
^ord? — perverse  and  crooked.  And  Bronne  watched  de- 
velopments a  little." 

Lucien  was  not  interested.  He  arose,  as  though  to  end 
the  discussion,  repacked  the  violin  and  set  it  aside  in  a 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  415 

drawer.  "  He  keeps  the  case  as  perquisites,  I  presume,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  did  so. 

"Aha!     Was  the  case  of  vakie?" 

"  He  might  get  eighty  francs  for  it.  It  was  one  of  my 
father's  last  presents ;  good  leather,  and  almost  new." 

"  Antoine's  name  on  it  ? — in  full  ?  Really,"  murmured 
Savigny,  "  the  ways  of  thieves  are  strange.  Why  should 
our  playful  young  friend  keep  that?  Lucien,  do  you  think 
the  whole  affair  is  a  solemn  farce  ?  " 

"  U  it  is,"  said  Lucien,  "  such  farceurs  should  be  shut 
up,  in  my  opinion,  at  least  long  enough  to  learn  better." 

"  Perhaps  I  was  rash  to  leave  the  joker  at  large,"  said 
Savigny,  fixing  his  queer  eyes  beyond  Lucien.  He  saw 
confronting  him  persistently  the  face  of  Jacques  as  it  had 
been  at  the  close  of  their  interview — not  carrying  the  ex- 
pression of  a  man  in  jest.  Bringing  them  back  to  Lucien, 
he  said,  in  his  sudden,  detached  way :  "  You'll  hear  of  it 
from  Antoine,  won't  you  ? — when  you  explain." 

"  I  should  prefer  to  make  my  own  explanation,"  said 
M.  Lemaure  instantly,  "  and  to  choose  my  time." 

"  Oh,"  said  Savigny,  "  it  is  between  you.  I  shall  not  in- 
terfere, and  I  can  manage  Philip.  In  fact,  I  have  done  so. 
Has  Antoine  worried  about  it  much?" 

"  Not  visibly.  He  has  been  pretty  quiet."  Another 
pause. 

"  I  say,  Lucien,  we're  dealing  with  an  eccentric  pair.    Do 

you  think  they  could  have  been  in  collusion?    I  mean,  could 

the  boy  have  agreed  to  let  him  have  the  thing,  or  been  ter- 

1  rorised  into  it,  and  not  let  on  ?     This  Jacques  could  be  a 

'  young  ruffian  on  occasion." 

Lucien  stared  a  minute.  "  You  have  extraordinary 
ideas,"  he  then  said.  "  If  so,  all  I  can  say  is,  Antoine  acted 
very  well." 

"  He's  a  magnificent  actor,"  said  Savigny  parenthetically. 

"To  the  extent  of  nearly  fainting?  That  was  his  first 
proceeding,  Jem  said,  when  he  discovered  the  loss." 

Savigny,  thrown  out  again,  was  vexed.    "  He  never  men- 


4i6  SUCCESSION 

tioned  it,"  he  said.  "  He  has  no  right  to  faint,  and  when 
he  does,  I  expect  to  be  told." 

"  You  can  abuse  him  to-morrow,"  said  Lucien,  lifting  his 
brows — all  the  sign  of  humour  he  could  muster.    "If  they 

come I  trust  they  will."     He  walked  to  the  window 

and  watched  the  scudding  clouds  under  bent  brows.  There 
was  little  doubt  he  was  thinking  of  his  wife,  though  he  had 
not  mentioned  her. 

"  It's  about  time  they  did,"  growled  Savigny.  There  had 
already  been  a  little  strain  between  this  warm-tempered 
pair  at  the  time  of  Lucien's  arrival,  three  days  since.  Sa- 
vigny had  expected  Antoine,  quite  unreasonably,  as  Lucien 
pointed  out,  and  refused  to  regard  the  engagement  as  an 
excuse.  As  if  any  engagement  he  argued,  at  such  a  time, 
could  count  against  the  boy's  plain  duty  to  a  dying  relation. 
Lucien  had  not  failed  to  point  out  his  friend's  inconsistency 
with  the  attitude  he  ordinarily  assumed  to  Antoine's  work; 
and  Savigny  in  retort  had  hinted  pretty  clearly  that  he  con- 
sidered jealousy  was  at  the  root  of  Lucien's  actions. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  knew  well  that  the  eldest  of  the 
Lemaure  sons  was  jealous.  It  was  the  family  fault,  and 
Lucien  with  all  his  virtues  could  hardly  have  avoided  a 
share.  In  days  that  the  nearest  friends  could  still  remem- 
ber, he  had  been  jealous  in  that  way  of  Marcel,  his  brilliant 
brother,  and  of  the  little  Henriette.  Before  that  envy 
could  bear  fruit,  both  those  fair  young  things  had  died; 
and  Lucien,  in  the  common  sorrow,  had  become  all  he 
would  be  to  the  father  he  worshipped.  For  many  years 
past  now  he  had  been,  as  none  knew  better  than  himself, 
his  father's  right  hand;   in  latter  days  half  his  brain. 

But  the  jealousy  that  is  based  on  weakness  does  not  die; 
and  when  the  intruding  grandchild  broke  upon  their  in- 
timacy, it  had  not  failed  to  lift  its  head.  Even  in  the  first 
years,  almost  of  babyhood,  Antoine  had  spent  with  them, 
there  had  been  times  when  the  subtle  understanding  that 
linked  his  father's  mind  with  the  child's  had  been  brought 
home  to  Lucien  in  a  flash,  a  fact  indisputable.     Together 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  417 

they  assumed  or  divined  things  which,  to  him,  needed 
explanation.  They  were  moved,  or  amused,  or  indifferent, 
when  he  was  not.  Worse,  they  had  intimate  friends,  like 
Reuss,  who  left  him  out.  Lucien  had  borne  it  well,  as  a 
rule,  for  he  had  a  genuine  dignity ;  but  now,  at  this  supreme 
moment  of  both  his  and  Antoine's  life,  he  could  bear  it  less. 
As  first  born  and  first  friend,  he  clave  to  his  rights,  and 
argued  easily  in  defence  of  them.  The  boy  had  his  busi- 
ness, and  M.  Lemaure  himself  detested  broken  engage- 
ments. He  had  made  all  arrangements  for  Antoine  to  fol- 
low him  at  the  proper  time,  and  it  was  not  his  fault  if  the 
programme  had  been  deranged  first  by  his  father's  rapidly 
weakening  condition,  then  by  Cecile's  indisposition  and 
storms  from  the  south-west. 

He  took  observations  of  the  weather  now,  so  far  as  the 
fading  light  would  let  him.  "  The  wind  is  getting  up,"  he 
said  uneasily.  "  We  shall  have  a  rough  night.  Raymond, 
I  think  I  shall  go  back  there.  He  might  wake  again,  and 
the  wind  annoys  him  always." 

"  As  you  will,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  shall  be  in  the  study 
if  you  want  me.  I  will  come  for  an  hour  before  dinner." 
As  he  said  it,  it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  this  might  easily 
be  their  last  chance  that  day  of  private  conversation,  so 
strictly  they  shared  their  guard ;  and  he  spoke  in  the  sud- 
den manner  that  annoyed  his  friend. 

"  Lucien,"  he  said.  "  Why  did  not  you  tell  me  there  had 
been  an  accident  in  London  ?  " 

"  What  accident  ? "  Lucien,  who  had  been  moving, 
stopped. 

"  That  the  boy  had  come  to  grief." 

Lucien's  vexation  was  obvious  as  he  paused,  still  half 
turned  away.  "How  did  you  hear  of  it?"  he  said.  "I 
thought  the  fact  better  passed  over  in  silence.  Most  fortu- 
nately, the  reporters  did  also." 

"Why  fortunately?" 

"  For  my  father's  sake,  I  mean.  I  trembled  the  morning 
I  arrived  here,  which  was  also  the  last  time  he  asked  for 


4i8  SUCCESSION  I 

the  news.  But  I  could  hand  the  English  journal  without 
fear.  The  notice  was  a  good  one,  even  unusually  kind. 
They  are  fond  of  the  boy  in  London ;  and  so,  I  suppose, 
they  forgave." 

"  Forgave  what  ?  " 

"  His  carelessness." 

"  Is  he  commonly  careless  in  public  ?  " 

"  Not  hitherto,  but  he  has  been  getting  worse.  In  private 
he  has  always  been  so,  intolerably.  It  is  the  thing  with 
which  we  have  struggled." 

Savigny  scratched  his  chin.  "  I  thought  his  memory  was 
remarkable.     It  certainly  was  as  a  child." 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Lucien,  growing  restive, 
and  moving  to  and  fro  with  short  quick  steps.  "  He  simply 
plays  with  his  advantages.  He  has  often  done  so  deliber- 
ately, to  annoy  me." 

"  Made  mistakes,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  or  altered  passages — things  he  really  knew  quite 
well.  No  memory  could  stand  such  treatment.  It  is  a 
dangerous  game,  and  so  I  warned  him." 

"  You  imply  this  breakdown  was  naughtiness  ?  " 

"  Not  this  time,  no.  He  really  did  lose  the  thread — let 
his  mind  wander  at  the  critical  point.  It  is  lack  of  method, 
at  the  root,"  said  Lucien.  "  Well,  it  will  be  a  lesson  to 
him." 

"Was  the  thing  difficult?" 

"  No.  It  is  intricate  a  little — a  show  piece.  He  can  play 
it  very  well,  and  has  played  for  years." 

"  He  was  frightened  when  it  happened,  eh  ? "  said  Sa- 
vigny, his  queer  eyes  exploring  the  teacher. 

"Frightened?  He  was  furious.  Beside  himself  for 
some  minutes,  Wurst  said." 

"  Were  you  not  there?  " 

"  No — I  was  waiting  at  home.  It  was  the  night  you 
warned  me." 

"Did  he  know  that?" 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  4^9 

"  No.  I  had  told  him  nothing  of  the  change ;  purposely, 
not  to  disturb  him." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Savigny,  and  thought  a  little.  "  Did  he 
finish?" 

**  Wurst  forced  him — almost  drove  him  on.  Fortunately 
he  has  an  influence.  He  finished  like  an  automaton,  in  the 
worst  possible  temper." 

''Whom  did  he  accuse?"  said  Savigny,  having  thought 
again. 

"  You  show  insight,  Raymond.  At  the  time,  the  accom- 
panist ;  and  afterwards,  me." 

"  How  you  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  I  should  not  have  put  the  morceau  on  the  programme. 
It  was  a  stupid  thing,  and  he  cannot  remember  those  for- 
ever." 

"Humph!"  said  the  doctor.     "Did  you  cuff  him?" 

"  No.  I  made  the  necessary  allowance  for  injured 
vanity.  I  did  not  talk  much,  I  was  too  worried  that  night. 
Besides,  he  is  not  foolish,  though  he  chooses  to  appear  so. 
He'  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  he  had  been  wasting  his 
working-time  in  his  private  amusements." 

"  What  amusements?  " 

"  Scribbling,  and  so  forth.  He  knew  there  was  no  one 
but  himself  to  blame — he  admitted  it  before  he  had  done. 
I  let  him  talk  himself  out — you  have  never  seen  him  in 
those  moods — and  then  spoke  as  quietly  as  I  could.  I 
said " 

"Well,  what  did  you  say?" 

"  I  thought  you  w^ere  not  attending.  I  said  I  should 
keep  it  from  my  father's  knowledge,  if  possible;  that  he 
had  already  been  more  than  sufficiently  disturbed  about  his 
other  piece  of  carelessness — the  loss  of  the  violin." 

"  Did  that  calm  him  ? "  inquired  Savigny,  with  the 
faintest  twinkle. 

"  He  said  his  grandfather  was  to  know,  and  that  if  I  did 
not  tell  the  whole  story  instantly  on  my  arrival,  he  would 
write.     He  added  that  he  would  not  play  again — would 


420  SUCCESSION 

break  his  bow — some  such  trash.  I  said  that  the  best  he 
could  do  was  to  stay  quietly,  and  make  the  last  concert 
more  worthy  of  us  and  of  his  reputation.  He  had  no  an- 
swer, and  I  let  him  sleep  on  it — having  told  him,  of  course, 
the  news.  Next  morning  he  was  steadier,  and  let  me  go 
without  a  fuss." 

Savigny  sat  forward.  "Did  he  write?"  he  asked,  knit- 
ting his  brows. 

"  Yes.  He  must  have  done  so  that  very  night.  My 
father,"  said  Lucien,  "  has  not  had  the  letter." 

"Did  you  read  it?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Lemaure  should  have  it,"  said  Savigny,  moving.  "  You 
are  wrong,  Lucien,  on  my  word.  It  is  very  possible  now 
that  Antoine  may  not  see  him  conscious." 

"  The  letter  was  nothing  but  tantrums,"  said  Lucien. 

"  You  are  unjust,"  Savigny  persisted,  "  to  both,  remem- 
ber.    It  is  no  trivial  responsibility." 

Lucien,  stirred  by  the  words,  turned  slightly.  "I  tore 
it,"  he  said. 

Savigny,  who  had  sat  up,  sank  back  with  a  gesture. 
"  Go,"  he  said  quietly.  "  And  see,  if  you  are  to  be  in  there, 
send  the  boy  to  me.    He  will  have  had  enough." 

Lucien  went  into  the  quiet  room,  and  stood  by  his  father's 
bedside,  still  biting  his  lip.  The  clash  that  had  occurred 
was  violent,  though  neither  side  had  raised  their  voices,  and 
though  they  were  old  adversaries,  well  used  to  difference; 
but  he  was  glad  nevertheless  to  have  spoken  the  thing,  for, 
prudent  by  habit  and  necessity,  he  did  not  love  conceal- 
ment. He  was  always  ready  to  defend  any  course  of  action 
he  had  chosen.  In  this  case  he  had  performed  his  filial 
duty,  as  he  conceived  it,  and  he  could  not  complicate  that 
pre-eminent  duty  with  others  just  now.  He  had  gained 
the  thing  he  wanted,  the  thing  he  needed,  a  clear  field,  and 
a  few  hours  of  undisturbed  communion  with  this  excep- 
tional man,  by  whose  guidance  he  had  lived.  In  the  fields 
of  reflection  and  of  memory  on  which  he  desired  to  enter. 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  421 

Antoine's  hot  young  spirit  worried  him.  The  mere  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  incalculable  thing  called  genius  put  him 
out.  It  had  broken  his  rare  seasons  of  peace  so  often — it 
had  intruded  even  between  himself  and  his  wife  of  late — 
he  had  flown  from  it,  thrust  it  by.  If  he  had  used  the  boy's 
failure  to  shame  him  into  submission,  he  could  not  yet 
regret  employing  such  tools.  It  had  to  be,  for  it  was  peace 
and  peace  alone  he  sought  for  now ;  if  he  could  have 
prayed,  he  would  have  prayed  for  that,  like  all  who  watch 
the  dying — just  quiet  of  mind,  in  deference  to  the  august 
eternal  peace. 

He  had  not  found  it :  he  had  failed.  As  he  stood  watch- 
ing his  father's  face  he  knew  it.  He  had  nothing  to  com- 
plain of,  he  had  been  treated  in  each  interview  with  the 
same  exquisite  care  and  courtesy,  but  the  last  tenderness 
he  desired  was  missing — the  gap  was  there.  There  was  a 
want,  his  spirit  felt  it  now,  that  all  his  faithful  love  could 
not  supply.  It  was  the  thing  in  all  life  that  Lucien  had 
missed:  that  divine  touch  which,  the  poet  says,  of  three 
sounds  makes  harmony.  The  musical  image  was  with  him 
unawares,  as  it  was  almost  bound  to  be.  He  had  spoilt 
the  closing  chord  of  one  musician's  life,  and  the  musician 
was  his  father. 

Nor  could  he  enter  that  other  peace,  the  peace  of  a  steady 

md  unshaken  faith,  that  illumined  the  elder  man's  face,  in 

he  happier  intervals  between  suffering.    To  the  son's  more 

clodding,  self-tormenting  nature,  that  consolation  was  not 

granted  either.    He  envied  now — knowing  not  that  he  was 

mvying — the  little  chaplet  betraying  itself  by  a  gleam  of 

:;ilver  under  one  beautiful  hand.     The  other  hand  lay  on 

^hilip's  hair ;   for  the  boy,  when  his  uncle  came,  was  sitting 

in  the  floor  beside  the  bed,  his  head  resting  sidelong  upon 

t.    He  was  still  grasping  his  book,  and  the  crumpled  paper 

i  his  aunt's  telegram  lay  across  the  open  page.     He  did 

ot  stir  as  Lucien  approached. 

"  Asleep  ?  "  he  said,  very  low. 

The  boy  shrugged  slightly  and  turned  his  eyes.     Both 


422  SUCCESSION 

watched  and  listened  for  a  space,  while  the  wind  without 
shook  the  panes ;  but  there  was  no  sign  from  the  motionless 
figure. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?  "  Lucien  murmured. 

"  The  wind  worried  him,  I  could  see  by  his  eyes.  So  I 
said  they  were  not  coming  over  to-night."  He  glanced  at 
the  telegram,  the  contents  of  which  Lucien  knew.  "  Come 
to-morrow  midday  boat,"  it  ran.  "  Concert  successful. 
Cecile." 

"  You  told  him  your  aunt  had  not  been  well  ?  Did  he 
speak  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him  say  '  Pauvre  petite/  so  he  understood." 

"  No  more?  "  said  his  uncle. 

"  When  he  opened  his  eyes,  I  said  Bebe's  concert  was  all 
right.  I  said  Bebe  on  purpose,  because  Savigny  said  his 
mind  had  gone  back.  I  don't  think  he  followed,  though. 
He  only  looked  at  me."  There  was  another  interval.  "  Is 
it  safe  now  ?  "  the  boy  murmured,  still  motionless. 

"  I  think  it  is.  My  dear,  had  you  not  better  go  to  bed?  " 
For  Philip,  still  lying  where  he  was,  had  shut  his  eyes. 

"I've  been  reading  too  much,"  he  answered  proudly; 
and  after  a  minute  he  laid  the  passive  hand  aside,  kissed  it, 
and  rose. 

Philip  came  into  the  ring  of  lamplight  in  the  study  still 
blinking,  and  walking  stiffly,  for  guarding  one  posture  so 
long  had  strained  even  his  active  limbs. 

Savigny,  reflecting  by  the  fire  in  his  grandfather's  chair, 
held  a  hand  out  without  turning ;  and  the  boy  went  to  him 
as  though  accepting  the  exchange  which  that  place  and 
movement  suggested.  By  tacit  agreement  everybody  in  the 
small  household  seemed  to  unite  their  efforts  to  spare  its 
youngest  member.  Savigny  himself  was  no  exception, 
though  in  school-time  he  took  Philip's  ability  and  attain- 
ments seriously.  They  had  admitted  him  now  and  again  to 
his  grandfather,  at  such  times  as  the  sick  man  remembered 
and  asked  for  him ;  but  those  times  grew  rarer  as  his  mind 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  423 

grew  weaker,  and  Philip  had  had  but  a  slight  portion  of 
the  strain  of  that  prolonged  vigil  that  had  worn  the  others 
out.  How  it  came  about  that  neither  IMargot,  Lucicn,  nor 
the  doctor  discovered  that  they  were  offering  him  quite 
an  undue  meed  of  indulgence  and .  consideration  at  each 
moment  of  the  day,  I  leave  it  to  those  who  solve  the  mys- 
teries of  inheritance  to  judge.  Henriette  Lemaure  had 
never  been  surprised  by  such  masking  of  the  thorns  of  life 
by  her  attentive  surroundings,  and  Philip  took  it  nearly  as 
unquestioningly.  Nearly — for  the  man  and  woman  of 
twenty  years  must  differ ;  and  Philip  was  annoyed  at  mo- 
ments to  find  his  practical  uses  so  generally  neglected.  At 
other  moments — and  the  present  was  one — the  attention 
and  sympathy  were  comfortable  merely. 

"You've  not  been  trying  to  read  in  there?"  said  Sa- 
vigny,  noticing  the  book  still  in  his  hand. 

**  No.  I  thought  I  could,  perhaps,  but  the  light  goes  so 
soon." 

"  Don't  play  tricks  with  your  eyes,  or  you  will  regret  it 
later.    Have  they  been  aching  again  ?  " 

"  Only  a  bit,"  said  Philip,  turning  aside. 

"  Come  here  and  let  me  see,"  commanded  Savigny. 

The  tall  young  student  obeyed  meekly,  and  dropped 
kneeling  at  his  side.  Savigny  drew  the  lamp  close,  took  his 
chin,  and  gazed  a  minute  fixedly.  Philip  thought  what  a 
queer  face  he  had,  and  how  little  terrifying  really. 

"  You  might  hypnotise  me  while  you  are  about  it,"  he 
muttered,  wincing  away  after  he  had  borne  the  scrutiny  for 
a  minute  or  so.  It  was  useless  of  course  to  disguise  from 
the  examiner  that  tears  and  not  treatises  accounted  for  the 
present  strain. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  You  would 
DC  an  easy  subject,  probably.  Are  you  sleeping  well?" 
Philip  had  to  admit  it.  "  Working  well,  evidently."  He 
jlanced  at  the  book,  an  essay  of  his  own.  "  Eating  ad- 
nirably.  Pulse  as  steady  as  a  pendulum — try."  Philip 
ried,  making  a  slight  face  as  he  did  so.    "  No  excuse  then, 


424  SUCCESSION 

is  there?  Get  along."  He  pinched  the  boy's  chin,  and  set- 
tled the  lampshade  he  had  tilted. 

"  I  wish  you  weren't  so  particular,"  said  Philip,  subsiding 
into  a  seat.  "  I  say,  did  you  find  out  why  young  Charret- 
teur  came  to-day  ?  " 

"  He  appeared  to  want  your  brother.  By  the  way,  he's 
older  than  you." 

"  He's  a  fish,"  said  Philip,  disregarding  the  remark.  "  A 
queer  fish.    That  is  what  we  say  in  English." 

"  I  should  like  to  find  the  hook  to  catch  such  fishes,"  ob- 
served Savigny.  "  Had  you  any  theory  yourself  why  he 
came  ?  "  He  did  not  mean  to  go  into  the  story,  as  to  the 
rights  of  which  he  was  not  yet  privately  satisfied,  but  he 
liked  testing  people's  judgment,  quite  apart  from  adopting 
their  opinion ;  and  he  had  enough  experience  of  Philip's 
age  to  know  it  always  had  a  theory  ready  at  call. 

Philip  ruminated.  "  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  either  to  bring 
some  news  about  that  fiddle  of  ours — or  to  beg." 

"To  beg?"  Savigny's  brows  fixed  in  a  scowl — a  sign 
of  interest. 

"  Antoine  gave  him  money  last  time,"  said  Philip, 
pleased  to  inform.  "  He  asked  me  for  bread  to-day,  though 
he  seemed  to  be  half  fooling  at  the  time.  He  is  a  fish,  that 
fellow." 

Savigny  scratched  his  chin,  "  I  believe  I  owe  him  some 
money  myself,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  subsided  into  mus- 
ing. Philip  supposed  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the  violin, 
or  he  would  have  said  so.  His  respect  for  Savigny's  reflec- 
tions was  vast ;  so  in  order  not  to  disturb  him,  he  took  up 
the  psychological  treatise,  and  laying  it  carefully  open  on 
his  knee,  prepared  to  study  it.  Only,  instead  of  doing  so, 
he  stared  at  the  fire,  absently  twisting  a  lock  at  the  back  of 
his  head. 

"  Let  your  hair  alone,"  snapped  the  tyrant,  without  warn- 
ing. "I  hate  fidgetty  tricks.  Phil,  had  you  heard  your 
brother  had  rate?  " 

"  IVhatf "     Philip's  hand   dropped,   and   his   pale   face 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  425 

flushed.  He  gazed  helplessly  at  Savigny.  "  It's  not  true, 
sir,  is  it?" 

Savigny,  experimenting  as  usual,  was  pleased  at  such 
instant  response  from  a  subject  younger  and  more  sensitive 
than  Lucien.  He  had  never  given  Philip  credit  for  much 
natural  sympathy  with  his  brother — none  of  the  French 
contingent  who  saw  the  pair  together  ever  did — so  that  his 
present  emotion  was  the  more  pleasing. 

"  M.  Charretteur  had  heard  of  it,  and  your  uncle  knew. 
M.  Charretteur's  friends  might  be  fishes  like  himself ;  but 
your  uncle's  word  cannot  be  doubted." 

"  You  mean  he  never  let  on  ?  "  snapped  Philip. 

"  Lucien  purposed  to  spare  us ;  but  such  things  get  out. 
I  gather  he  broke  down  completely,  before  a  roomful. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

Philip  rose,  and  held  the  chimney-piece.  "  I've  a  mind 
to  go  to  England  at  once,"  he  said,  in  a  crisp  tone  like  his 
father's.  "  You  mean  he  was  left  alone,  after  that,  to  face 
another  concert  ?  " 

"  The  other  concert  is  over  now,"  said  Savigny,  pleased 
again  at  a  line  of  thought  so  sympathetic  with  his  own. 
"  It's  well  over,  too,  according  to  your  aunt." 

"  That  doesn't  make  it  much  better,"  growled  Philip. 
"  He  must  have  been  baited  half  to  death  to  fail  in  the  first 
place."  Pie  considered  hard  a  minute,  staring  at  the  coals. 
"  I  can't  believe  it,"  he  admitted,  turning.  "  It's  not  a  bit 
like  him,  sir.     If  you  knew " 

"  Would  you  not  call  him  nervous?  " 

"  Of  course ;  but  not  in  that  way.  He  would  play  in 
front  of  anybody,  always,  when  he  was  five  years  old.  He 
enjoys  a  crowd  of  people — you  have  only  to  see  him  at  it. 
When  he  has  got  his  hand  in,  the  more  the  better — d'you 
;ee?" 

"  Your  uncle  calls  him  careless,"  said  Savigny. 

"  He  isn't,"  the  boy  said  bluntly.  "  He  rags  my  uncle, 
)f  course — always  did.  I  remember  grandpapa  rowing  him 
ibout  it,  in  this  room,  when  he  was  ten.     He  was  fairly 


426  SUCCESSION 

sinful  at  ten — I  suppose  he  was  well."  He  stopped,  and 
Savigny  waited.  "  But  this — now — it  would  be  the  other 
way.  They've  been  at  him,  I  bet — harrying  him  round  with 
his  duty,  and  the  credit  of  the  family,  and  what  grandpapa 
expects — when  all  he  asks  is  to  stand  up  anywhere  and 
play  out  what's  in  him."  Philip  broke  off  short.  He  was 
still  visibly  flushed,  and  his  tone  was  warm. 

"  Well  done,"  said  Savigny.  "  If  I  had  known  you  were 
so  observant,  Phil,  I  would  have  come  to  you  sooner  for 
evidence.  It  was  a  bad  day,  then,  and  other  people's  fault. 
Is  that  your  theory  ?  "  _    j 

"  I'm  pretty  sure  it's  not  his,"  said  Philip,  turning  his  ! 
eyes  away.    "  Careless !    My  word — you  should  have  seen 
him  tackle  Duchatel's  recital  here,  when  he  had  that  fright- 
ful cold — "  : 

"  Which  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  All  right.  I  shouldn't  have  let  on.  Anyhow,  the  sonata 
was  a  corker.  Axel,  who  is  a  strong  fellow,  told  me  after 
it  he  had  had  about  enough.  The  young  one  was  done  for 
simply :    couldn't  speak  to  us  for  some  minutes " 

"  Breathless  ?  "  said  Savigny  sharply. 

"  Oh,  he  got  over  it,"  said  Philip.  "  He  was  frightfully 
hoarse  as  well.  But  it  was  no  wonder:  you  should  have 
seen  the  way  he  went  at  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better,"  said  Savigny,  "  since  you  have 
said  so  three  times." 

"Said  what?" 

"  That  it  is  my  duty  to  see." 

Philip  was  brought  up.  "  I  say — I  didn't  mean — of  course 
he  would  be  jolly  pleased  if  you  would." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  He  has  always  been  a  little  sore  neither  you  nor  papa 
would  attend.  That's  another  odd  thing  about  Tony's 
nerves — he  likes  people  he  knows  to  be  there.  It  makes  it 
twice  as  bad  for  me " 

"  How  often  have  you  played  in  public  ?  "  asked  Savigny. 
"You  mean  to  inform  me  that  Antoine  would  not  break 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  427 

down  at  the  next  concert  right  off,  if  I  sat  in  the  front 
row  ?  " 

"  He'd  break  you  down,"  said  Philip,  with  conviction. 
"  That's  the  one  with  Ribiera,  the  sixth  of  January.  Grand- 
papa said,  the  last  time  he  talked  to  me,  the  programme 
was  out  of  the  way  interesting.  Do  go,  sir — it  would  be 
ripping." 

"Was  the  one  you  heard  cut  of  the  way  interesting?" 
asked  Savigny. 

"Which?     I've  heard  several." 

"  The  one  that  took  your  breath  away,  and  his." 

"  Oh — well — grandpapa  would  not  have  cared  for  it.  I 
expect  you'd  like  this  better." 

"  Thanks.  The  question  is,"  said  the  tyrant,  "  if  the 
programme  fits  into  mine."  He  fished  for  his  engagement- 
book  and  studied  it  for  some  minutes ;  or  appeared  to  study, 
for  his  eyes  w^ere  not  looking  at  it  all  the  time.  Then  he 
pocketed  it,  and  locked  his  hands  behind  his  head  with 
closed  eyes. 

"Any  questions?"  he  asked  presently  of  a  sudden,  al- 
luding, it  seemed,  to  Philip's  book,  into  which  the  youth 
had  again  subsided. 

"  Heaps,"  said  Philip,  glancing  up.  "  But  I  sha'n't  ask 
them  now.    You're  tired." 

"  With  one  line  of  thought,"  said  Savigny.  "  So  I  change 
to  another — sea?"  He  extended  a  hand.  "  Allons,  mon 
petit,"  he  said,  every  line  of  his  face  altering  to  kindness. 
He  gave  the  boy  practically  a  lecture  after  that,  and  Lucien, 
when  he  re-entered  the  room,  was  amazed  at  him.  There 
was  simply  no  tiring  Raymond.  He  seemed  more  than 
mortal,  supporting  them  all,  though  his  own  suffering  could 
not  be  doubted  for  an  instant  by  those  who  knew  him  so 
well.  He  was  wonderful  with  Philip  now,  watching  him 
closely,  while  he  talked,  waiting  for  him,  humouring  his 
difficulties,  luminously  clear  in  statement,  and  showing  at 
moments  a  reflection  of  the  wit  which  in  his  public  lectures 


428  SUCCESSION 

captivated  an  audience  by  no  means  exclusively  profes- 
sional. 

"  That  boy,"  he  said  later  to  Lucien,  when  he  joined  him 
for  dinner,  "  is  much  more  susceptible  than  he  appears." 

"  The  English  mask  is  deceptive,"  said  Lucien. 

"  I  thought  when  he  first  came,"  Savigny  proceeded,  "  that 
he  was  the  stiffest  young  coxcomb  I  had  ever  met.  I  even 
thought  of  discouraging  his  entrance  into  my  profession." 

"  Is  self-conceit  such  a  bar  to  your  profession  ?  "  said 
Lucien. 

"  Naturally.  To  any  work  where  constant  research  and 
an  open  mind  are  imperative.  One  has  perpetually,"  said 
Savigny,  "  to  revise  one's  most  firmly  established  opinions — 
a  proceeding  which  amour-propre  cannot  endure." 

Lucien  lifted  his  eyebrows.  He  could  not  be  stirred  to 
dispute. 

"  In  fact,"  finished  Savigny,  "  though  a  little  may  be  al- 
lowed to  the  student  age,  one  cannot  attain  my  years  with- 
out the  quality  being  entirely  eliminated.  I  argued  that 
lately  with  Louis  Bronne,  and  he  agreed." 

"  Tiens,"  said  Lucien. 

"  The  nicest  thing  about  Louis  is  his  responsiveness," 
said  Savigny. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Raymond.  What  opinions  has 
Philip  obliged  you  to  change  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  it  was  changed.  I  said  I  had  to  consider 
the  possibility  of  revising  it." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Lucien.  "  Well,  the  state  of  mind  cannot 
last.  You  a-re  low-spirited,  Raymond — no  wonder.  Come 
and  dine." 

The  fact  that  Margot's  dinner  was  excellent,  and  that 
Philip  ate  his  share  of  it  most  heartily,  did  not  prevent  him 
from  feeling  intensely  miserable  when  he  retired  later  to 
his  room — or  rather  to  Antoine's,  of  which  he  was  in  occu- 
pation. Healthy  youth  seizes  on  what  the  body  needs  me- 
chanically, even  when  the  eternally  insoluble  prol)lems  of  life 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  429 

and  death  are  tearing  at  the  mind.    Savigny  was  summoned, 
in  the  middle  of  the  meal,  by  the  night  nurse,  who  had 
just  arrived.    For  though  a  nurse  is  evidently  an  expensive 
luxury,  and  though  M.  Lemaure's  son,  his  friend  and  his 
servant  were  all  ready  to  sacrifice  their  sleep  for  him,  and 
even  disputed  the  privilege,  after  three  nights  it  became 
clear  to  Savigny's  good  sense  that  it  was  no  real  economy 
to  sacrifice  their  health  as  well.    For  this  night,  trusting  to 
I   the  nurse  and  the  telephone,  he  had  intended  to  go  home; 
I   but  as  the  evening  advanced,  and  quiet  sank  upon  the  va- 
I    rious  floors  of  the  household  and  the  wide  street  without, 
'  in  the  sufferer's  room  the  powers  of  life  and  death  drew 
!   up  in  battle-line,  and  the  doctor  set  all  thoughts  of  rest 
I  aside,  and  flung  himself  with  his  accustomed  fury  into  the 
i  ranks  of  the  defence.     Savigny  was  wonderful  thus  to  see, 
j  terrible  even,  for  a  will  that  had  hardly  known  resistance 
i  from  man  was  set,  like  Lucifer's,  against  the   invincible 
forces.    He  could  not  win,  and  yet  he  fought  undismayed — 
wild,  as  Bronne  had  called  him  when  he  fought  for  the 
i  little  Antoine — as  though  he  would  have  laid  his  life  beside 
his  friend's.    Lucien  was  cowed  by  him,  Margot  breathless 
with  admiration,  but  Philip,  his  young  pupil,  was  not  al- 
lowed a  glimpse  of  that  last  noble  conflict ;  and  alas,  had 
he  seen,  he  knew  he  could  not  have  borne  the  sight.     His 
uncle's  face,  when  the  summons  came  at  dinner,  had  been 
enough.     Philip  shrank  inwardly  before  it,  and  retreated 
as  soon  as  possible  to  his  garret  behind  the  kitchen,  where 
he  sat  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  feeling  incon- 
ceivably solitary. 

He  did  not  fear  to  be  wanted  by  the  little  group  about 
:  the  dying  man.  He  knew — something  had  informed  him 
already — that  these  last  grave  hours  belonged  to  the  elder 
people.  He  was  forgotten — stranded.  He  could  only  wait, 
hoping  for  nothing,  fearing  the  least  whisper,  furious  with 
the  long  whining  of  the  wind  that  mocked  his  pain,  longing 
most  bitterly  for  something  young  to  talk  to,  something 
of  his  own  kind  to  join  him  in  this  place  apart.     Left  to 


430  SUCCESSION 

grope  alone,  he  could  only  repeat  to  himself  his  uselessness, 
the  uselessness  of  all  things.  Yesterday  he  had  believed 
in  science  and  Savigny ;  but  now  that  these  could  not  save 
his  grandfather,  the  faith  grew  thin  and  stale. 

Nothing  in  his  experience  could  help  him.  He  had 
missed  his  mother,  of  course,  though  he  had  been  languid 
after  a  long  illness  when  the  news  was  broken  to  him,  and 
the  shock  had  only  come  home  to  his  spirit  by  degrees.  He 
had  missed  her  profoundly,  as  an  exquisite  image,  a  daily 
romance,  a  stirring,  charming  presence  that  had  vanished 
from  his  life — not  as  many  mothers  are  missed.  Henriette 
had  seized  upon  her  children's  imagination,  on  their  devo- 
tion, in  Philip's  case  on  a  young  unconscious  chivalry ;  not, 
like  her  father,  on  their  reverence  and  their  trust.  It  was 
in  part  owing  to  his  mother's  example,  in  part  to  his  own 
nature,  that  Philip  had  from  quite  early  years  adorned  his 
grandfather's  image  with  all  the  graces,  and  had  grown 
easily  to  regard  him  as  something  a  little  more  than  human. 
He  was  devoted  to  his  father;  in  all  the  ordinary  needs 
of  life  he  could  turn  to  Jem  for  counsel ;  but  there  were 
certain  contingencies,  he  felt,  which,  owing  to  fortune, 
had  never  yet  occurred,  but  which  always  might — certain 
tempests  of  soul  that  had  merely  muttered,  certain  shocks 
of  doubt  and  shadows  of  despair  only  darkening  his  dreams 
at  present;  and  childlike  he  felt,  that  if  these  should  ever 
confront  him  in  lifetime  and  in  daylight — his  grandfather 
was  always  there. 

M.  Lemaure  was  one  who,  by  his  very  existence,  replaced 
a  faith  for  his  surroundings.  He  had  become  an  idol  un- 
wittingly, as  those  may  do  who  are  strong  and  simple  of 
soul.  Fervently  religious  his  whole  life  long,  he  had  never 
tried  to  enmesh  his  children  or  his  friends.  Marcel  had 
been  a  languid  believer,  Lucien  had  argued  himself  con- 
scientiously into  independence  of  the  church.  Henriette 
had  observed  the  forms  as  women  do,  revelled  in  confes- 
sion as  an  excitable  girl,  and  laughed  openly  at  all  the  laws 
and  ordinances  her  father  most  prized.     His  son-in-law. 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  451 

whose  sincerity  he  respected,  was  a  Protestant,  Savigny  a 
rabid  materialist,  his  other  sons  had  lapsed  more  or  less 
through  inhabiting  foreign  lands.  To  none  of  his  circle  but 
the  abbe,  a  friend  of  later  life,  could  he  speak  his  inmost 
thoughts  quite  freely ;  and  the  abbe  was  a  man  of  narrow 
outlook  and  rigid  tenets  with  whom  he  often  failed  to  agree. 
For  the  new  generation  he  prayed  constantly,  but  recog- 
nising James  Edgell's  right,  he  refrained  from  action  and 
had  never  voluntarily  tampered  with  their  young  minds. 
Only  Antoine,  the  child,  had  been  unconsciously  at  mo- 
ments allowed  to  see  his  own;  for  to  M.  Lemaure  art  and 
religion  came  very  near  to  meeting  at  certain  points;  and 
no  child  of  his  had  been  initiated  into  art  by  him  with  such 
earnest  concentration  as  the  last. 

Margot,  who  forgot  nobody  among  her  bewildering  mass 
of  small  duties  as  the  only  servant,  brought  Philip  some 
food  towards  midnight,  and  remained  with  little  persuasion 
to  converse.  Margot,  Philip's  faithful  ally  and  adorer, 
filled  some  of  his  need;  and  her  simple  talk  of  the  dying 
man  relieved  him.  He  encouraged  her  to  revive  memories 
of  his  mother's  young  days  in  the  house,  of  M.  Savigny's 
patient  courtship,  of  Alonsieur  son  papa's  breezy  conquest, 
of  his  own  charms  and  wickedness  at  five  years  old,  and  of 
the  arrival  seven  years  later  of  ce  chcr  petit,  whose  absence 
at  such  a  junction  JNIargot  quietly  mourned. 

"  He  knew  it  when  he  started,  monsieur.  But  I  am  sure 
he  knew  it,  his  look  at  Alonsieur  was  so  strange.  And  he 
kissed  me  with  a  violence — his  little  fingers  bruised  my  arm. 
He  knows  more  than  all  of  them,  he  always  did ;  but  he  is 
too  good  and  devoue  to  say  so.  It  was  Monsieur's  wish 
sent  him  to  that  England,  and  it  is  Alonsieur's  wish  that 
should  recall  him  now.  But  monsieur  your  uncle  would  not 
see  it — he  left  that  telegram  till  this  morning.  And  now 
Madame  is  ill,  and  he  will  be  too  late." 

"Where  will  he  sleep  when  he  comes?"  said  Philip,  to 
turn  her  thoughts  from  a  subject  on  which  he  also  had  felt 
uneasiness.     The  great  convulsion  of  illness  had  disturbed 


432  SUCCESSION 

all  the  customary  arrangements  in  the  house,  and  at  the 
best  of  times  the  space  was  limited.  But  Margot,  he  dis- 
covered, had  planned  it  all  in  advance.  M.  Antoine  should 
have  her  little  bed  in  the  kitchen ;  he  loved  the  warm,  and 
she  had  killed  most  of  the  blackbeetles  he  so  disliked. 
Madame  was  provided  for  on  the  third  floor,  a  fine  room 
she  had  occupied  once  before.  If  la  petite  Yvonne  came 
with  Madame,  heaven  would  be  good  to  Margot,  and  fur- 
ther inspire  her.    That  indeed  would  be  the  climax,  yes. 

"  It  would  be  a  problem,"  admitted  Philip.  "  She  is 
nearly  as  particular  as  my  aunt ;  and  I  don't  suppose  either 
of  them  would  put  up  with  many  blackbeetles.  What  about 
you,  I  say  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  on  my  feet  till  it  is  finished,"  said  the  woman 
quietly.  "  There  will  be  much  to  do.  In  any  case,  a  chair 
will  suffice." 

Having  fed  and  flattered  M.  Philippe  sufficiently,  and 
made  him  as  comfortable  as  her  means  could  compass,  she 
left  him  late ;  and  rather  later  still  he  slept.  He  dreamt 
persistently  of  his  brother,  mingled  with  tragedy,  storm  and 
wreckage;  dreams  no  doubt  inspired  by  the  rattling  of  the 
attic  casement,  and  the  wailing  wind.  Latest  of  all  he 
awoke,  and  found  Antoine  sitting  by  his  bed. 

Philip,  full  of  his  visions,  roused  to  their  subject's  actual 
presence  by  degrees,  with  full  leisure  to  do  so,  for  he  did 
not  move  at  once.  He  was  sitting  in  the  deep  chair  near 
the  bedside,  where  in  old  days  it  had  been  his  grandfather's 
custom  to  sit.  Philip  remembered  having  seen  him  so  long 
since,  with  Antoine  a  mere  baby  at  his  feet.  He  had  told 
them  then,  in  his  exquisitely  simple  language,  the  life  of 
Pascal,  and  Pliilip,  a  schoolboy  on  holiday,  had  listened 
entranced  to  all  the  early  part,  and  been  bored  by  the  end. 
The  child  of  eight  had  been  motionless  throughout.  The 
elder  brother  remembered  the  whole  scene  in  a  flash,  seeing 
the  boy  sitting  there ;  for  he  sat  in  M.  Lemaure's  very  atti- 
tude, his  brow  sidelong  on  his  hand,  his  fine  long  fingers 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  433 

I  dividing  his  hair,  pushed  back  a  trifle  by  the  gesture.    The 

I  movement  disclosed  some  little  lines,  and  his  eyes  were 
!  shaded  slightly,  but  he  looked  rather  serious  than  dis- 
j  tressed.     The  quality  of  the  daylight,  entering  by  the  low 

II  window  beyond,  proved  that  it  was  late. 

'       As  Philip  gazed,  the  boy  turned  his  eyes,  and  the  look 

of  age  was  swept  from  his  face.    That  had  happened  also, 

always,  when  his  grandfather's  thoughts  were  interrupted. 

"  What — on — earth "    began    Philip    helplessly,    still 

I   doubting  if  he  saw  a  ghost. 
"  Tu  as  bien  dormi  ?  "  Antoine  suggested. 
"What  are  you  doing  there?"  said  Philip,  remorselessly 
English  in  manner  and  speech. 

"  I   have  been   waiting — since  an   hour,"   said  Antoine, 
English  too  to  oblige  him.    "  That  is  all." 
"You  came — alone?"     He  nodded. 
"  My  aunt  did  not  mind,"  he  explained.     "  I  told  her  I 
had  got  to.     I  have  brought  her  box.     She  comes  to-day 
with  Yvonne." 

"  How  did  the  concert  go  ? "  said  Philip,  still  waking 
slowly.    "  I  say — Fve  got  your  bed." 

"  Yes ;  I  do  not  want  it,"  said  Antoine.     "  You  are  well 

i  there,  hein?     Comfortable."     Stretching  a  little  forward, 

:  he  leant  an  elbow  on  the  bed  for  a  change,  and  looked  at 

i  Philip  with  most  friendly  eyes.    At  an  answering  movement 

;  of  course,  he  would  have  embraced  him,  but  Philip  made  a 

i  point  of  never  encouraging  that.     He  had  taught  Antoine, 

'  at  the  age  of  six,  to  beware  how  he  attempted  it.    He  took 

hold  of  the  wrist  instead.     "  Bebe,  what's  happened  ?  "  he 

muttered  anxiously.     He  could  not  say  how  it  entered  him 

through  the  boy's  eyes,  now  seen  so  near,  that  the  worlds 

had  moved  while  he  slept. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  Antoine,  to  reassure  him.  "  There 
is  nothing  to  happen  again.  Savigny  says  the  pain  cannot 
come  back." 

"  Has  it  been " 

"  It  has   been  an  awful   night,"   said  the  boy,  looking 


434  SUCCESSION 

thoughtfully  through  him.  The  elder  bit  his  lip,  realising. 
For  Antoine  on  the  sea,  for  Savigny  in  the  sick-room,  it  had 
doubtless  been  awful.    But  he  had  slept. 

"  He  will  live  to  the  night,  perhaps,"  Antoine  pursued, 
with  the  same  curious  ease.  "  M.  I'abbe  went  to  him  at  eight 
— that  is  an  hour  ago." 

Philip  moved.    "  You  mean — you  were  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes;  he  let  me  go  in,  with  Margot.  I  had  just 
come,  at  eight.  I  was  wet,  and  very  dirty."  His  calmness, 
to  Philip,  was  the  most  amazing  thing  of  all.  Even  his 
great  eyes  were  perfectly  calm,  as  they  moved  about  the 
room,  taking  note,  as  it  were,  of  familiar  objects  from  his 
upper  level. 

"  You  and  Margot — was  that  all  ?  "  Philip  felt  intensely 
curious. 

"  And  the  sister  that  is  there.  My  uncle  and  Savigny 
did  not  wish,  you  see.    They  were  outside." 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?"  said  the  elder  brother.  He  had 
no  idea  what  he  was,  in  this  strange  moving  of  the  worlds. 

The  boy  made  a  little  movement.  "  Soon.  My  uncle 
held  my  arm — perhaps  because  I  was  so  dirty  with  the 
trains ;  but  M.  I'abbe  saw  me  in  passing,  and  he  let  me  go. 
I  washed  my  hands,"  he  added,  with  exquisite  simplicity, 
"  because  he  always  looked  at  that." 

"  Grandpapa  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  once  he  said — long  ago — that  le  bon  Dieu 
did  also." 

"Grandpapa  recognized  you  then?" 

After  a  short  pause  'he  boy  said :  "  I  do  not  think  so. 
But  I  was  very  near,  beside  the  bed." 

Philip's  eyes  stung  with  tears.  "  It's  too  horrible,"  he 
muttered,  "  and  I've  had  him  all  these  weeks.  It — isn't 
fair.    Why  didn't  you  come  with  my  uncfe  ?  " 

"  I  could  not.    There  was  a  concert." 

"  Why  didn't  you  cut  it  ?  " 

"  I  could  not,"  he  said  again.  "  It  had  to  be  a  good  one. 
Afterwards,  I  saw  that  too." 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  435 

"Not  at  the  time?" 

"  No.  I  said  a  lot  of  rude  things  to  my  uncle.  I  was 
excited  that  night,  after  the  other  one — I  wished  to  make 
him  angry  too."  He  spoke  as  of  something  long  past,  his 
brow  strained,  his  eyes,  for  the  moment,  anguished.  "  I 
expect  he  told  grandpapa  all  that." 

"  I'm  sure  he  told  no  tales  of  you.  He  couldn't  be  so 
low.    Don't  worry,"  said  Philip,  in  his  father's  tone. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  he  had  said,"  the  boy  repeated. 

"  I  don't  think,  anyhow,"  said  Philip,  with  an  effort, 
"  grandpapa  would  have  minded.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  us 
at  all ;  only  of  maman  and  the  old  days.  He  had  done 
with  us,  I  mean." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Antoine,  his  brow  slightly  clearing. 
"  He  was  very  old."  He  leant  back  in  the  chair.  "  I  told 
him  in  the  letter,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  satisfaction,  clasp- 
ing his  long  hands  together,  "  that  the  last  concert  should 
be  good." 

"  But  you  can't  tell  him  it  was,"  said  Philip,  with  a  keen 
look.  Antoine  shook  his  head  and  smiled  faintly.  "  I  say, 
you're  a  bit  proud  of  yourself  this  time,  it  strikes  me." 

"  Because  it  was  very  hard,"  the  boy  explained.  "  It  was 
quite  a  difficult  concert — but "  His  wide  gesture  sup- 
plied boasting. 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  was 
quite  convinced,  "  I  should  think  you  had  better  stop  crow- 
ing and  go  and  get  me  some  breakfast." 

Antoine  swung  himself  up  at  the  suggestion,  and  went 
to  the  kitchen,  which  adjoined  his  room.  After  a  period, 
during  which  Philip,  who  was  hungry,  grew  impatient,  he 
returned  with  two  bowls  of  hot  chocolate,  adroitly  bal- 
anced. "  I  made  that,"  he  observed.  "  Margot  was  not 
there,  but  I  have  seen  how  she  does  it." 

"  Any  fool  can  make  chocolate,"  said  Philip.  "  It  smells 
all  right.  You'll  spill  it  if  you  throw  it  about  like  that." 
His  anxiety  about  spilling  showed  that  he  approved  the  mix- 
ture, and  Antoine  was  content.     It  remained  enormously 


436  SUCCESSION 

important  to  please  Philip,  who  had  shown  himself  so  kind 
and  understanding  lately.  It  was  flattering — and  amusing 
also — to  see  him  in  occupation  of  Antoine's  peculiar  room, 
which,  as  Philip  remembered  it  in  its  original  incarnation, 
as  a  home  of  spiders  and  dust,  he  had  never  taken  seriously 
enough.  It  was  decidedly  kind  of  Philip  to  sit  up  in  An- 
toine's bed  and  drink  his  chocolate,  and  make  English  jests 
by  the  way,  in  order  to  set  the  owner  at  his  ease. 

As  for  Philip,  he  could  not  have  conceived  that  things  he 
had  left  so  disordered  and  disjointed  overnight,  could  have 
come  right  so  strangely.  He  represented  it  as  the  work  of 
sunlight  and  the  new  day,  for  he  could  not  quite  admit  it 
was  the  boy's  presence  and  behaviour  that  had  worked  the 
happy  miracle.  Tony  fitted  the  occasion,  as  usual — so  much 
he  might  have  allowed ;  not  that  by  his  mere  coming,  his 
easy  posture  in  the  chair,  his  quaint,  careful  sentences,  he 
had  brought  all  things  into  tune — ^grief  and  contentment, 
the  exalted  and  the  commonplace,  life  and  death,  the  pres- 
ent and  the  past :  that  he  had  done  in  short  that  which  M. 
Lemaure  alone  had  been  able  to  do.  It  was  the  touch  of 
art  that  Philip  was  suffering,  the  inexorable  magic  touch 
that  still  transforms  in  spite  of  us ;  that  never  hesitates  to 
test  and  examine  first  the  materials  it  has  to  transmute, 
but  never  fails  to  transmute  them.  Antoine  had  his  own 
manner  of  dealing  with  common  things.  He  told  Philip,  in 
the  middle  of  drinking  his  chocolate,  that  he  had  break- 
fasted already  on  arrival,  but  that  he  needed  a  good  deal, 
because  he  had  been  "  so  very  sick  "  upon  the  sea. 

"  Did  you  stay  up?  "  said  his  brother. 

"  Yes.  That  is  how  I  got  so  wet.  The  waves,"  said 
Antoine  dreamily,  "  were  rather  beautiful  all  the  time." 

"  Didn't  Savigny  rag  you  for  coming  alone?  "  said  Philip, 
eyeing  him  rather  closely. 

"  No,  He  was  pleased  that  I  had  come.  He  said  I  had 
done  well." 

"  What  did  my  uncle  say  ?  " 

"  Nothinsf.     He  was  not  thinkinsr  of  it." 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  437 

"  Is  Savigny  still  here?"  said  Philip,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  think  he  has  gone  to  the  clinique ;  it  will  soon  be  ten." 

"  Going  to  do  a  day's  work  after  that?  Oh,  Lord,  what 
a  fellow!  Do  you  know  he  has  had  no  sleep  for  three 
nights?  " 

"  He  is  very  tired,"  said  the  boy.  "  My  uncle  was  angry 
with  him  for  something,  but  he  did  not  answer.  He  went 
away.    You  see,"  he  added,  "  there  is  no  more  to  do." 

Philip  thought  he  need  not  emphasise  the  fact.  His  own 
chief  feeling  was  still  a  wish  to  escape  from  any  deliberate 
weighing  of  his  loss. 

"  I  shall  go  out,"  he  said,  with  decision.  "  I  must  have 
some  air,  or  I  shall  be  ill." 

"  I  should  like  to  come,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  want  to  see 
M.  Bronne." 

"What  on  earth  for?" 

"  He  is  to  tell  me  something.  Do  you  think  my  uncle 
would  mind  for  us  to  go?" 

"  It  would  only  be  an  hour  or  so,"  said  Philip.  "  You  go 
and  see." 

"  You  go,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Don't  argue,  or  you'll  make  my  head  ache,"  said  Philip. 
Antoine  drank  the  remains  of  his  liquid  slowly,  set  the  cup 
down  with  a  tap,  and  went.  He  came  back  after  a  period, 
looking  quite  different. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  I  am  not  to  go,  he  says.  You  may  do  as  you  prefer." 
His  voice  had  changed  too,  was  lower  and  shaken.  He  had 
had  a  shock  evidently  in  the  interval.  Through  Lucien,  the 
horror  he  had  not  felt  for  himself  had  touched  him,  dis- 
turbing all  his  thoughts,  and  shattering  for  the  moment 
that  spiritual  vision  of  the  dawn. 

He  sat  down  away  from  Philip,  by  the  window,  and 
looked  out  with  unseeing  eyes.  Philip,  in  the  process  of 
dressing,  glanced  at  him  sharply  once  or  twice,  but  he  did 
not  move.  His  eyes  were  steady,  but  distended  a  trifle,  re- 
minding Philip  of  the  profde  study  Jespersen  had  made 


438  SUCCESSION 

long  since,  which  he  had  scoffed  at  as  theatrical.  He  might 
have  accused  the  boy  of  posing  now,  for  one  long  hand  lay 
upon  his  heart,  the  other  gripped  the  chair.  Only  when 
Margot  entered  he  stirred,  changed  posture,  and  clasped 
both  before  him,  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Margot,  "  M.  Philippe  has  taken  his 
water,  hein?  I  had  to  leave  his  breakfast  because  they 
needed  me."  Then  she  saw  the  other  occupant  and  ex- 
claimed :  "  M.  Antoine — mechant — you  have  not  changed. 
Did  I  not  tell  you?  You  were  wringing  wet  when  you 
came." 

"  It  has  got  dry,"  Antoine  reassured  her,  "  and  the  boxes 
were  all  downstairs."  He  offered  a  sleeve  to  be  tested  as 
she  approached. 

"And  could  you  not  have  fetched  what  you  wanted? 
You  are  heartbreaking.  You  will  do  nothing  for  yourself, 
and  can  I  manage  the  affairs  for  everybody?  It  is  not 
reasonable  to  expect  it.  It  is  like  that  you  have  your  colds, 
and  the  good  God  knows  in  this  house  we  can  do  with 

nothing  more.   I  do  not  need  to  be  embraced,  monsieur " 

She  accepted  a  kiss  from  him,  though  unmoved  by  it  from 
her  attitude  of  censure.  "  You  are  still  wet  underneath, 
without  doubt.  Come  at  once  into  the  kitchen  and  undress 
completely,  that  I  may  have  you  under  my  eyes." 

Philip  felt  his  responsibilities  distinctly  lighter  when  An- 
toine had  departed  in  the  woman's  charge.  For  though 
Margot,  like  the  majority  of  cooks,  had  a  temper,  her  sever- 
ity wfth  the  boy  was  apt  to  exhaust  itself  in  words.  Later, 
when  Philip  passed  the  kitchen  on  his  way  out,  Antoine 
was  sitting  beside  Margot,  each  on  a  wooden  chair,  and 
talking  to  her  rapidly  and  low.  Philip  saw  the  tears  on  his 
face,  and  Margot's  handkerchief  clenched  in  her  hand ;  but 
he  could  only  guess  the  subject  of  their  dialogue,  as  both 
stopped  when  he  came  in.  Whatever  it  was,  their  views 
upon  the  immediate  matter  agreed,  and  they  could  cry  and 
converse  upon  an  equal  footing  in  comfort.  Philip,  being 
convinced  by  long  experience  that  Antoine  was  always  the 


TRAGEDY    PROCEEDS  439 

better  for  talking  in  the  end,  decided  to  let  him  struggle 
back  to  peace  of  mind  in  his  own  fashion  without  inter- 
ference. Philip  greatly  preferred  not  to  interfere.  It  was 
of  course  the  last  thing  in  the  world  that  would  ever  have 
occurred  to  himself,  to  sit  embracing  his  knees,  with  his 
feet  on  the  rail  of  a  wooden  chair,  in  front  of  softly  hissing 
saucepans,  and  exchange  spiritual  experiences  with  a  cook. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  just  like  Tony,  and  must  con- 
sequently be  tolerated  with  the  least  visible  embarrassment 
he  could  contrive. 

"  You  can  have  your  room  now,"  he  said  kindly,  "  I 
should  go  in  there,  if  I  were  you,  and  get  some  sleep." 

"  He  shall  sleep  here  in  the  warm,  the  cheri,"  said  Mar- 
got,  drawing  the  boy's  head  upon  her  shoulder.  She  was 
evidently  moved,  and  had  long  left  her  anger  behind. 
"  When  the  pastry  is  made  I  will  consider,  and  find  the 
sheets  for  his  little  bed.  M.  Philippe  need  not  disturb 
himself,  hein?  " 

Antoine's  little  movement  seemed  to  agree  that  the  less 
disturbance  that  could  be  contrived  in  the  world,  the  better, 
since  he  found  himself  for  the  moment  warm  and  com- 
fortable by  Margot's  stove.  His  thoughts,  peaceful  and 
painful  alike,  had  all  merged  for  the  present  in  agreeable 
drowsiness ;  and  the  intermittent  flare,  crackle  and  puffs 
from  the  burning  wood  filled  the  whole  of  his  horizon, 
while  other  things  flitted  sidelong  past  him,  like  shades. 

"  It's  really  wonderful,  on  the  whole,  how  quietly  he 
takes  it,"  thought  Philip,  on  the  stairs.  "  Because  in  a  way 
you  would  have  said  he  must  miss  grandpapa  more  than 
anyone." 

;  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  what  he  had  been  witness- 
ing, the  trouble  and  tears  that  had  disturbed  him  for  an 
hour,  were  but  the  aftermath  of  storm ;  such  a  handful 
of  fierce  drops  as  might  have  been  flung  from  one  of  the 
rags  of  cloud  now  scudding  across  the  faint  blue  winter 
sky. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

AND   FINISHES 

Philip  walked  furiously  half-way  up  the  hill,  before  he 
bethought  himself  that  he  was  making  on  instinct  for  the 
habitation  of  his  friends,  and  that,  as  it  was  Christmas 
week,  they  had  probably  scattered  to  the  winds.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  Jespersen  the  faithful  might  still  be 
there,  and  that  the  quiet  northerner  had  a  soothing  presence 
that  might  be  more  grateful  than  the  folly  of  the  French- 
men, or  Ostrowski's  tiresome  activity  of  body  and  brain. 
So  he  went  on,  climbed  to  the  haunts  of  the  Rats,  and 
found,  as  he  expected,  all  the  rooms  abandoned  but  the 
studio,  which  was  evidently  still  occupied,  for  smoke  hung 
upon  the  air.  Philip  waited  for  a  period,  admired — since 
being  solitary  he  could  admire — a  fine  half-finished  study 
of  a  woman  that  stood  upon  the  easel,  looked  at  photographs 
of  Scandinavian  snow  scenes  with  envious  desire  of  the 
purity  and  solitude  they  represented,  and  finally  became 
impatient.  Catching  the  caretaker  on  the  stairs,  he  learnt 
that  M.  Jespersen  had  gone  to  Notre  Dame. 

"Whatever  for?"  said  Philip  indignantly. 

To  paint,  the  concierge  supposed,  since  ces  messieurs 
were  not  devots. 

Philip,  thus  reassured,  clattered  down  the  wooden  stairs, 
and  made  by  back  streets  for  the  cathedral.  The  sun  had 
come  out,  though  the  clouds  were  still  flying,  and  the  river 
scenes  were  daintily  clear  in  the  winter  light.  Philip  was 
reminded  of  the  season  by  stacks  of  mistletoe  on  the  quays, 
and  little  fir-trees  before  the  flowershops;  and  straight- 
440 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  441 

way  his  mind  rushed  back  to  Antoinc's  first  Christmas  in 
Paris,  which  he  had  kindly  come  from  England  to  attend. 
M.  Lemaure  on  that  occasion  had  bought  a  ridiculously 
small  tree  for  a  few  sous,  and  decorated  it  according  to  his 
own  ideas,  regardless  of  Philip's  English  criticism,  and  the 
fact  that  he  had  none  of  the  trade  materials.  He  remem- 
bered watching  him  operate  with  a  kind  of  wonder:  he 
seemed  so  certain  of  what  he  wanted,  so  sure  in  doing  it, 
only  pausing  to  consider  at  intervals,  his  eyes  on  the  sky 
without ;  and  then  the  overwhelming  effect  on  Philip's 
mind  of  his  last  proceeding,  which  was  to  lift  the  white  and 
green  thing,  faintly  glittering,  that  he  had  made,  and  set 
it  in  the  high  window  against  the  dark  blue  twilight  sky, 
as  though  that  had  been  throughout  his  intention.  And 
Philip  had  abandoned  all  idea  of  the  conventional  object 
in  his  own  mind,  and  had  only  found  a  new  faith  in  his 
grandfather's  power  of  evolving  beauty  independently  of 
poverty  and  all  sordid  inconveniences. 

It  was  during  this  first  visit  also,  Philip  remembered, 
that  he  discovered  to  his  surprise,  almost  to  his  discomfort, 
that  it  was  not  his  grandfather,  but  his  uncle,  who  was 
teaching  Antoine ;  and  that  M.  Lemaure's  own  lessons  were 
rare,  and  more  of  the  nature  of  periodic  tests  than  regular 
instruction.  They  read  together  truly,  over  a  surprising 
range  of  subjects,  in  at  least  three  languages ;  but  the  elder 
brother  could  never  remember  having  seen  musical  history 
or  criticism  in  the  boy's  hand.  Beyond  that,  Antoine's 
business  with  his  grandfather  was  to  copy  the  rough 
manuscripts ;  and  even  then  he  was  far  more  often  re- 
proved for  carelessness  than  commended  for  his  almost 
eerie  understanding  of  the  much-corrected  scrawls.  Alto- 
gether, Philip  in  his  wisdom  had  decided  that  M.  Lemaure 
had  not  educated  his  natural  representative  in  the  technical 
business  of  his  calling  at  all ;  and  had  at  most  entered  from 
time  to  time  into  a  discussion  of  general  principles ;  taking 
frequently  by  preference  a  line  with  the  child  that  seemed 
to  the  domestic  critics  either  too  playful  or  too  severe ;  and 


442  SUCCESSION 

which  not  infrequently  annoyed  or  disturbed  everybody 
present  except  Antoine  himself,  who  remained  amused,  at- 
tentive, or  perhaps  a  little  inquiring. 

Turning  on  to  the  island,  Philip's  eye  caught  Manuel 
Ribiera's  name  on  a  column,  and  it  jerked  him  from  his 
dreams  into  the  actual.  Yes,  there  it  was  beneath,  the  name 
Philip  shared,  that  was  now  becoming  familiar  in  the  public 
streets.  It  reminded  him  that  the  concert  was  due  quite 
soon,  and  that  his  brother  could  not  take  a  breathing-space 
even  during  the  holiday,  for  they  had  rehearsed  only  once 
in  London,  and  then  Ribiera  had  been  freakish  and  un- 
satisfactory, according  to  his  uncle.  He  had  meant  to  ask 
Antoine  what  he  thought  of  the  gilded  celebrity,  and  it  had 
slipped  his  mind.  What  Ribiera  thought  of  Antoine  was 
easier  to  surmise.  He  would  be  amused  by  him  probably, 
take  him  in  hand,  possibly  make  his  fortune:  that  was 
really  funny,  and  caused  Philip  to  smile.  The  boy  had  con- 
fided to  him  that  morning  that,  negligent  as  usual,  he  had 
arrived  at  the  terminus  with  a  single  halfpenny,  which  he 
had  had  to  offer  to  the  porter  with  apologies. 

At  this  point,  having  attained  the  Paris  Notre  Dame,  it 
became  necessary  to  consider  whether  Jespersen  would  be 
more  probably  found  within  the  building  or  without.  He 
would  be  sketching  details  for  a  background  probably,  but 
Philip  had  recently  rather  lost  count  of  him  and  his  plans. 
Finally  he  decided  to  look  round  the  interior  first,  and 
pushed  the  entrance  door  with  a  careless  hand. 

Thereupon,  Our  Lady  of  Paris  revenged  herself  upon  his 
heedlessness,  for  the  boy  was  overcome,  as  by  a  revelation, 
by  the  sombre  glory  and  dense  stillness  of  the  church. 
Philip  had  forgotten  the  darkness  he  would  meet  there, 
coming  from  the  sun  without.  His  eyes  were  cut  off,  as 
by  a  velvet  curtain,  in  their  instinctive  search  for  distrac- 
tion from  serious  thought.  The  underpart  of  his  mind  was 
forced  to  work,  and  he  knew  he  must  strive  now  with  the 
vision  of  his  loss,  just  like  any  other  common  sufferer  who 
had  ever  crawled  into  that  sanctuary.     Dropping  his  quest, 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  443 

he  sat  for  half-an-hour  on  a  bench,  gazing  before  him  with 
set  lips  and  fingers  clenched.  First,  he  felt  a  shame  for 
having  so  rarely  been  inside  this  place,  for  having  regarded 
it,  British  fashion,  as  a  show,  instead  of  as  an  intimate  part 
of  innumerable  humble  lives.  He  could  not  say  why  that, 
the  tragic  aspect  of  the  church's  meaning,  struck  him  first. 
It  was  not  a  mere  ornament,  a  glory  of  the  capital,  it  was 
Paris  itself,  the  inner  side,  representing  thousands  of 
crushed  lives  in  the  small  streets  round,  for  hundreds  of 
years.  The  shadow  that  haunted  it  was  the  shadow  of 
eternity;  the  faint  sounds,  plaintive  in  the  stillness,  were 
the  echoes  of  human  grief.  Then  grief  itself,  true  grief, 
smote  Philip,  the  grief  which  life  demands  as  a  toll,  higher 
for  every  year  the  sufferer  lives.  It  was  his  first  grief,  and 
so  his  truest;  sweeping  away  the  little  sentiment  of  his 
memories,  so  carelessly  seized  and  stored,  shaking,  rebuild- 
ing and  bracing  him  ;  teaching  him,  as  youth  must  be  taught 
once  at  least,  by  defeat. 

Jespersen,  the  bearded  student,  who  was  not  far  away, 
crouched  modestly  in  a  corner  with  a  sketch-book  in  one 
hand,  and  a  pencil  balanced  across  the  other,  saw  Philip, 
noted  in  passing  the  admirable  drawing  of  his  head  and 
shoulders,  and  resisted  with  success  the  temptation  to  trans- 
fer them  to  his  book.  For  those  who  knew  Jespersen,  it 
would  have  been  sufficient  to  say  this,  to  prove  in  him  a 
genuine  sympathy.  He  had  a  friendliness  for  Philip,  not 
only  as  an  obliging  model ;  the  attraction  one  northern 
I  spirit  feels  for  another  in  a  Gallic  milieu.  Philip  frequently 
:  followed  meanings  in  Jespersen's  work  that  the  other  Rats 
failed  to  see,  or  disapproved  entirely  if  they  saw.  The  Gallic 
Rats  were  suspicious  of  significance  in  art,  but  Jespersen, 
regardless  of  them,  introduced  a  good  deal.  The  signif- 
icance of  Edgell's  rigid  posture  and  gripped  hands  in  the 
cathedral  was,  for  instance,  an  excellent  inspiration,  but 
Jespersen  renounced  it.  He  dodged  Philip  neatly,  and  is- 
sued through  the  western  door,  whence  he  circumvented  the 
building  with  deliberation,  took  a  new  seat  in  a  conspicuous 


444  SUCCESSION 

place,  and  began  to  sketch  a  portion  of  the  exterior.  There 
he  sat,  his  head  tilted  slightly,  swinging  his  pencil  over 
wide  curves,  or  jotting  in  the  fretwork  and  carving,  until 
a  long  shadow  fell  across  the  page. 

"  That  you  ?  "  said  Philip  carelessly.  "  Isn't  this  a  new 
line?" 

"  No ;  several  old  ones,"  said  Jespersen,  who  spoke 
English  competently.  "  It  strikes  me  all  the  same,  Edgell, 
that  the  parties  who  built  this  knew  their  trade  better  than 
I  do."    He  screwed  his  eyes  at  his  drawing. 

"  Ripping,"  said  Philip.  "  I  always  like  pencil-work. 
My  father  does  it  pretty  well." 

"  Pencil  is  an  invention  of  the  devil  to  flatter  the  simple," 
said  the  artist  absently.  "  No  offence  to  your  father.  I 
mean  it  is  useful,  you  understand." 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Philip.     "  I'll  tell  him." 

"  And  talking  of  utility,  how's  Antoine?  "  j 

"  Oh,  as  well  as  usual.    He's  just  across."  j 

"  I  supposed  the  last  news  I  saw  would  bring  him.  If  i 
there  is  nothing  to  tell,  Edgell,  don't  tell  it." 

"  There's  no  hope,"  said  Philip  briefly.  The  artist,  crook-  ' 
ing  the  pencil  deftly  with  his  thumb,  passed  four  fingers  : 
sidelong  and  gripped  his  hand. 

"  Is  your  brother  bearing  up?"  he  said. 

"  Perfectly  extraordinarily,"  said  Philip. 

"  What  it  is  to  have  a  brain !  He  thought  all  round  it 
and  out  the  other  side — before  he  was  five,  probably." 

"  He  was  rather  more  than  six,"  said  Philip. 
"  So.     Does  he  want  you  at  home,  or  will  you  come  to 
lunch  with  me?  " 

Philip  opined  that  Antoine  would  be  all  right,  but  that 
the  cook  might  miss  him. 

"  I  shall  take  little,"  said  Jespersen,  putting  in  finishing 
touches,  which  were,  Philip  grieved  to  see,  completely 
imaginary,  to  the  drawing.  "  I  dined  at  ten  last  night  by 
an  oversight.  If  you  come  along  and  disregard  the  cook, 
I  win  veil  you  in  gr-eat  detail  how  it  happened." 


TRA.GEDY    FINISHES  445 

So  Jespersen,  with  the  kind  intent  of  cheering  Philip  up, 
related  his  experience  over  a  restaurant  table.  It  proved 
unexpectedly  interesting  to  its  auditor,  and  was  successful 
in  turning  his  thoughts. 

The  previous  evening  Jespersen  and  a  comrade,  being  in 
a  Christinas  mood  of  festivity,  and  on  adventure  bent,  had 
penetrated  into  the  wilds  of  Montmartre,  and  having  missed 
their  dinner  at  a  proper  hour  in  pursuit  of  a  lady  who  might 
have  served  for  Jespersen's  next  picture  had  he  managed 
to  see  her  face,  and  finding  themselves  hopelessly  lost,  they 
had  dropped  into  a  cafe  towards  ten  to  refresh  their  bodies 
with  food,  and  their  memories  by  a  map  of  the  quarter. 

"  It  was  a  cheap  place  near  a  theatre,"  said  Jespersen, 
"  gilt  over  and  smartened  up,  but  I  should  say  on  the  down- 
ward grade.  However,  the  food  was  passable,  the  com- 
pany killing,  and  the  music — this  is  the  point — quite  off  the 
common  lines.  We  changed  tables  after  a  time,  simply  to 
get  a  better  view  of  the  men  who  played.  The  first  fiddle 
was  a  '  type ' — eccentric-looking  beggar  and  a  bit  sour — 
sort  of  fellow  you  could  see  as  Harlequin,  or  any  essentially 
tragic  part  with  a  comic  side ;  and  the  odd  thing  was, 
Edgell,  I  knew  his  features  by  heart.  As  soon  as  I  started 
drawing  him  on  the  dinner  bill,  I  could  have  sworn  I  had 
drawn  him  before.  Georges  Charpentier  reminded  me. 
He  said,  before  we  had  sat  for  five  minutes:  '  If  that's  not 
Charretteur,  it's  his  twin  brother.'  Then  I  remembered. 
I  had  once  sketched  Jacques  Charretteur — it  was  at  An- 
toine's  recital — and  this  fellow,  squeaking  away  in  a  cheap 
cafe,  was  exactly  like  him." 

"  The  deuce  he  was,"  said  Philip.  Jespersen  was  look- 
ing expectantly  at  him,  for  Philip,  by  right  of  his  descent, 
had  successfully  claimed  and  kept  a  position  as  referee  in 
the  musical  discussions  of  the  fraternity. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  his  circumstances  ?  He's 
touring,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Lord  knows  where  he  is,"  said  Philip.  Jespersen  saw 
he  withheld  something,  but  did  not  press  for  it. 


446  SUCCESSION 

"  I'd  have  thought  it  done  for  a  joke,  or  a  bet ;   but  I 
asked  a  fellow  near  by,  who  said  Harlequin  was  a  regular 
at  the  place,  and  a  bit  of  a  draw,  which  didn't  surprise  me. 
He  was  in  a  devil  of  a  temper,  anyone  could  see,  but  he 
was  playing  brilliantly,  and  someone  started  the  idea  of  a 
collection.     We  handed  in  such  sous  as  we  could  spare, '' 
just  for  the  fun  of  it.     We  had  an  idea,  with  a  face  like  > 
that,  the  man  would  refuse ;  but  he  didn't.    He  just  parted 
the  coins  on  a  tray  into  four  with  his  hand,  handed  it  round : 
the  quartet  like  refreshments,  and  tossed  the  other  fellows 
for  an  odd  franc  with  an  air  that  made  us  laugh.     He's  a 
born  comedian  anyhow.     He  wouldn't  give  us  a  solo,  but 
they  put  on  an  extra  piece;  which  was  not  an  arrangement 
of  low  opera  like  the  rest,  but  music ;  and  he  played  it  like ' 
a  musician — and  the  company  was  bored." 

"  Fish,"  murmured  Philip.    "  Pardon,  Jespersen ;  go  on." 

"  I  had  a  feeling  something  must  occur  before  the  even- 
ing was  up,  he  was  so  evidently  excited ;  and  so  it  did.  i 
About  eleven  or  so,  he  was  drawn  into  a  quarrel.  There 
was  some  pretty  heavy  drinking  going  on,  and  the  theatre  ^ 
opposite  turning  out  did  not  add  to  the  quality  of  our! 
society.  We  couldn't  leave,  though,  it  was  so  curious.  1; 
don't  quite  know  where  the  quarrel  started,  there  was  such 
a  noise  at  once.  As  far  as  we  could  gather,  an  unpleasant- 
looking  character  in  a  cheap  fur  coat  began  abusing  the 
men  at  his  table,  raised  his  voice,  stood  up  and  shouted 
something  at  our  Harlequin  on  the  platform.  Harlequin 
looked  sidelong  at  him  over  the  fiddle,  sneered,  and  con- 
tinued playing.  Then  there  was  a  row — a  jolly  row.  A 
woman  was  in  it — Columbine,  naturally — and  a  fiddle 
which  Harlequin  had  stolen." 

"  A  fiddle  ?  "  gasped  Philip.    "  When  ?  " 

"Recently — in  the  last  act.  Columbine,  I  gather,  had 
been  a  party  to  the  theft.  Harlequin  was  charged  with 
stealing  it,  and  her,  from  our  friend  in  the  cheap  coat.  He 
denied  both  counts,  jeering  like  Satan.  The  man,  who 
was  pretty  drunk,  gave  him  the  lie  and,  what  convulsed 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  447 

our  audience,  called  him  out.  Harlequin,  who  was  sober, 
accepted  the  challenge  without  winking,  and  brought  down 
the  house.  At  which  point,  up  comes  the  manager,  swear- 
ing. Now,  it  struck  me  in  rather  a  singular  fashion,  be- 
cause there's  a  legend  connected  with  the  real  Charretteur 
about  a  duel,  and  he  has  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the 
finest  fencers  in  Paris." 

"  Who  told  you  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  Paul  Ostrowski,  who  knows  most  of  those  fellows  be- 
hind scenes.  I  rather  think  Paul  himself  has  had  a  bout 
with  him." 

"  Confound  him,"  muttered  Philip.  Being  but  a  beginner 
in  the  art,  prowess  with  the  foils  impressed  him  terribly. 
He  had  rashly  plumed  himself  the  previous  day  on  being 
a  better  wrestler  than  Jacques,  but  now  his  superiority 
dropped. 

"  We  had  to  leave,"  said  Jespersen,  "  before  the  comedy 
was  completed,  but  it  turned  ill  for  our  hero.  The  man- 
ager had  better  not  have  tried  to  intervene,  for  he  caught 
it  from  both,  and  Harlequin  has  a  tongue  as  tough  as  his 
twin  brother's  rapier.  He  enjoyed  himself,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  he  convulsed  the  room.  He  gave  me  an  impression  of 
having  been  loaded  up  in  advance,  and  only  waiting  to  dis- 
charge on  somebody.  He  took  on  two  as  easily  as  one,  and 
raked  them  alternately,  with  an  eye  to  the  audience  all  the 
while.  Well,  I  should  lay  a  good  deal  he  has  sacrificed  his 
engagement  for  that  hour's  innocent  amusement,  whether 
he  saves  his  honour  at  the  sword's  point  or  not.  The  little 
manager  was  like  a  turkey-cock  with  fury." 

"  Did  he  stammer  at  all?  "  said  Philip,  after  a  pause. 

"  He  did  a  trifle.     Do  you  know  him  then  ?  " 

"  I  might." 

"Rather  an  odd  occurrence,  don't  you  think?"  said 
Jespersen. 

Philip  thought  it  was.  He  thought  a  good  deal  more 
than  he  would  say,  it  was  clear.  However,  his  friend  saw 
by  his  more  lively  look,  and  rapid  questions,  that  the  main 


448  SUCCESSION 

object  of  diverting  his  mind  for  the  time  was  accomplished. 
The  fact  was,  nothing  ever  pleased  Philip  more  than  the 
chance  of  a  little  amateur  criminal  investigation.  Such 
psychological  observation  as  he  possessed  turned  naturally 
in  that  direction.  He  found  in  Jespersen's  experience,  com- 
bined with  the  details  Antoine  had  given  his  father  of 
Jacques'  story,  a  rather  singular  chain  of  circumstances.  Had 
he  possessed  Savigny's  knowledge  in  addition,  he  would 
have  been  saved  some  brain-searching;  but  conjecture  sup- 
plied the  links  missing  well  enough.  Unless  Charretteur 
had  a  morbid  passion  for  violin  collecting,  he  could  hardly 
have  stolen  two  violins  in  two  months,  especially  if  he  knew 
the  police  were  on  his  tracks  for  the  first.  It  was  not,  on 
the  other  hand,  so  impossible  that  he  should  have  witnessed 
or  suspected  the  theft  in  the  original  instance,  lain  low,  and 
despoiled  the  spoilers  on  his  own  account.  That  he  should 
have  blarneyed  the  woman  to  accomplish  it,  Philip  judged, 
was  not  unlikely  either,  given  his  physiognomy;  for  there 
certainly  was  a  queer  attraction  about  this  "  fish  "  of  An- 
toine's.  Nor  was  it  improbable  that  he  had  contrived  the 
crime  for  Antoine's  sake ;  though  the  possibility  must  still 
be  faced  that  he  was  playing  for  his  own  hand  in  the  theft. 
Yet,  if  so,  why  had  he  come  of  his  own  will  to  inquire  for 
the  boy?  And  in  that  rather  eager,  hungry  fashion? 
Philip,  having  found  the  word  hungry  in  his  thoughts,  en- 
deavoured to  lose  it  again,  for  it  had  an  uncomfortable 
connection  with  Jacques'  request  for  bread.  Fellows  who 
asked  for  bread  were  not  in  Philip's  scheme  of  things,  and 
he  did  not  want  them  there. 

"  Thanks,  Jespersen,"  he  said,  at  parting.  "  You  have 
given  me  food  for  thought." 

"  I  observed  you  fattening  on  it,"  said  the  artist,  "  and 
I  venture  to  draw  my  own  conclusions.  If  true,  they  will 
make  a  fine  tale." 

"  Do  you  mind  not  letting  loose  at  present  ?  "  said  Philip. 
"  My  family  is  implicated,  that's  the  fact." 

"  My  mouth  is  sealed,"  said  Jespersen  gravely.     "  Shall 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  449 

I  give  you  a  general  reflection  instead?  When  anecdotes 
collect  about  a  personality,  it  implies  something  in  the  per- 
son. He  may  be  a  poseur,  which  is  the  common  product, 
or  an  actor,  which  is  the  rare.  An  actor  acts  for  his  own 
amusement,  regardless  of  the  public  eye.  He  will  pretend 
to  be  a  lunatic,  when  he  is  alone  in  a  railway  compartment. 
Now,  Charretteur  has  the  true  actor's  type,  I  recognised 
it  as  I  drew  him.  Such  as  you  or  I,  my  dear  Edgell,  get 
involved  in  knots  by  life ;  but  we  get  into  untidy  situations, 
or  awkward,  or  silly  ones.  The  born  actor,  aided  by  his  in- 
stinct, gets  tied  into  a  picturesque  knot  always,  colour  and 
atmosphere  about  him,  and  his  situation  makes  a  story. 
My  Harlequin  was  such,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  his 
brother  Jacques  was  as  well.    Your  brother " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  He  gets  into  other  people's  knots,  I  should  imagine.  I 
don't  imply  he  knows  harlequins,  or  gets  involved  in  shady 
transactions." 

"  He  does,"  said  Philip.    "  At  least  I  mean,  he  might." 

"  Well,  he  would  make  them  sunny  if  he  did,  by  his  own 
unassisted  light.  I  love  Antoine,"  said  Jespersen,  "  though 
he  has  stolen  my  best  picture.  Indeed  that  may  be  why. 
Farewell." 

Meanwhile,  Antoine  remained  solitary  for  most  of  the 

morning,  for  Savigny  did  not  return,  and  his  uncle  did  not 
stir  from  his  watch  in  the  inner  room.  The  kitchen  in  the 
late  morning  grew  admirably  warm,  as  the  sputtering  wood 
fire  sank  to  a  bed  of  embers,  and  the  boy  succumbed  by 
degrees  to  the  heavy  travelled  feeling  that  had  held  off 
during  the  earlier  excitement.  Towards  lunch-time  Mar- 
got,  who  could  afford  him  little  attention,  looked  in. 

"  M.  Duchatel  would  like  a  word,  cheri,"  she  said,  dis- 
turbing him  from  a  doze.  Antoine  jerked  himself  up  and 
went  out  to  the  door,  blinking  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes. 
There  stood  Victor  on  the  staircase,  beautifully  equipped 
for  motoring,  with  fine  furs  wrapping  him  to  the  ears.    He 


450  SUCCESSION 

sought  the  latest  news  for  his  mother,  and,  since  he  did 
not  choose  to  converse  with  servants,  had  sent  the  message 
in.  Antoine  told  him  what  there  was  to  tell,  and  Duchatel 
found  a  few  pretty  phrases  of  condolence,  his  eyes  search- 
ing the  boy  curiously  meanwhile.  They  had  undoubtedly 
drawn  apart  a  little  since  the  concerts;  also  he  had  won- 
dered once  or  twice  of  late  whether  in  some  of  his  letters 
he  had  not  gone  too  far.  As  usual,  so  soon  as  he  set  eyes 
on  Antoine  in  the  flesh,  he  realised  those  evident  facts  of 
his  youth  and  delicacy,  which  in  the  perusal  of  his  work 
entirely  escaped  the  mind. 

"  What  a  little  thing,"  flashed  through  Duchatel.  "  I 
have  been  brutal,  evidently.  Might  one  enter  an  instant?" 
he  said  upon  the  thought.    "  I  must  not  stay." 

The  boy,  still  drowsy  and  listless,  let  him  into  the  ves- 
tibule and  then  stood  in  doubt. 

"  Do  you  mind  the  kitchen  ?  "  he  suggested.  "  Those 
rooms  are  so  cold." 

"  If  I  do  not  inconvenience  Madame  Margot,"  said 
Victor.  "You  are  in  confusion,  hey?"  he  added  grace- 
fully, half  to  the, woman,  as  he  entered  her  domain. 

"  Bon  Dieu,"  Margot  muttered,  "  what  does  Monsieur 
expect?"  Privately  she  considered  the  visitor  superfluous 
at  such  a  time ;  but  M.  Antoine  must  be  allowed  his  freaks, 
now  as  always.  She  placed  her  best  chair  for  the  guest, 
and  escaped  by  the  other  door,  muttering  something  as  she 
did  so.  Duchatel  lifted  his  brows  and  sat  down,  after  a 
pause,  upon  the  chair.  Antoine  retired  to  his  former  place, 
the  pallet  couch  in  the  corner,  where  he  sat  in  the  shadow, 
clasping  his  knees. 

"  You  must  be  shockingly  cramped  here,"  said  Duchatel, 
having  used  his  eyeglass  a  little  on  various  primitive  domes- 
tic arrangements.  "Say,  can  we  be  of  service?  I  was 
commissioned  to  inquire  of  Lucien.  If  Madame  Lemaure 
would  honour  us,  for  example,  my  mother  would  be  more 
than  charmed.    It  is  years  since  we  saw  her  properly." 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  451 

Antoine  shook  his  head.  "  My  uncle  wants  her.  Margot 
has  a  room." 

"  Lucien  is  devoted,  one  knows,"  said  Victor.  "  Still, 
they  have  so  frequently  been  separated " 

"  He  wants  her,"  the  boy  repeated.  "  When  he  saw  me 
come  this  morning,  I  had  to  say  she  was  not  there.  He 
looked "    A  gesture  finished  it. 

"  Psst !  "  said  Victor,  with  compassion,  "  You  were  no 
good,  I  suppose,  mon  petit.  Were  you  at  war,  then,  to  the 
last?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine.  "  Only  I  think  he  has  forgotten 
that.     I  never  imagined,  really,  how  it  would  be  for  him." 

"  And  you  ? "  said  Victor,  after  a  pause.  As  the  boy 
looked  round  inquiring,  he  pursued :  "  Are  you  to  sleep 
with  friends?  " 

Antoine  struck  the  little  pallet  on  which  he  sat  expres- 
sively. For  a  moment  Duchatel  did  not  follow ;  then  his 
cool  face  changed. 

"  Here  ? — impossible !  No,  but  it  is  disgraceful.  See, 
my  little  one,  you  come  to  us;  for  that  I  take  no  denial." 
He  rose  brusquely  and  approached  the  couch.  As  Antoine 
only  shook  his  head,  he  persisted,  moved  yet  further  by  his 
pallor  and  unwonted  silence.  "  You  poor  little  tired  thing ; 
after  all  your  labours,  and  with  more  to  come,  to  be  con- 
signed to  the  coal-hole " 

"  It  is  not,"  the  boy  said,  smiling  faintly.  "  It  is  a  very 
good  kitchen  for  this  quarter,  Margot  says." 

"  That  does  not  prevent  its  being  half  the  size  of  my 
dressing-room.  I  cannot  conceive  it — and  that  cross  woman 
to  rattle  you  up  at  dawn !  Have  you  out  of  bed  with  the 
poker,  hein?     She  would  be  more  sour  than  ever,  then.". 

"  No,  no ;  she  is  not  sour.  You  see,"  said  Antoine,  with 
an  effort  to  explain,  "  I  have  got  to  be  here.  Philippe  can 
do  what  he  likes,  but  I  must  stay.  There  are  my  uncles 
coming " 

"  Not  more,"  Victor  groaned.    "  And  is  it  not  my  missiorij 


452  SUCCESSION 

to  save  you  from  all  uncles?    I  am  sure  that  entered  our 
compact  originally — eh  ?  "  He  took  him  by  the  arms. 

The  boy  half  laughed.  "  You  are  kind,"  he  said,  and  the 
tears  that  brimmed  his  eyes  showed  his  real  fatigue.  "  I 
do  not  want  those  people,  of  course.  Nor  does  he.  But 
they  have  to  come,  and  as  I  have  met  them,  they  will  want 
to  see  me "  | 

"  Vile  curiosity,"  said  Victor.  "  Oh  yes,  I  comprehend. ' 
You  are  the  spectacle  of  the  moment,  to  Lemaures;  pry-; 
ing! — no,  it  is  detestable.  Thank  heaven  at  least  my  rela- 
tions are  so  few.  Look  here,  why  cannot  your  brother 
deal  with  them,  if  he  is  there?  " 

"Philippe?"  The  boy  shrugged  slightly.  "He  hates 
them  worse.  He  will  probably  tell  my  aunt  he  cannot  see 
them,  and  go  for  a  walk.  That  is  how  Philippe  does,  when 
he  is  not  happy." 

"  Is  that  what  he  is  doing  now?  " 

"  Yes.  He  will  be  better  when  he  comes  home.  You  do 
not  go,  Victor?"  He  extended  two  detaining  fingers.; 
"  Voyons ;  I  had  something  for  you,  when  I  can  remember 
where  it  is."  He  swung  his  feet  off  the  couch,  and  sat  up 
to  consider. 

"  Not  another !  "  Duchatel  exclaimed.  "  Well,  your 
master  can  approve  your  industry,  little  one,  at  least.  I 
have  not  unpacked  the  last  one  yet." 

The  boy's  eyes  showed  faint  disappointment,  as  he  fixed 
them  on  the  critic.  "  This  is  the  end  of  that,"  he  explained. 
"  You  see,  I  did  not  think  I  should  come  so  soon.  That  is 
why  I  sent  those,  for  you  to  see  them  quicker." 

"  Are  they  so  wonderful  ?  "  said  Duchatel,  chaffing  him. 

"  Again."  He  nodded.  "  You  will  be  astonished,  be- 
cause I  have  made  a  piano  part.  I  think  that  is  a  nice  in- 
strument. It  is  not  a  really  difficult  part,  do  you  see,  but 
for  a  good  man  to  play." 

"  To  the  devil  with  the  man  who  plays,"  said  Victor. 

"  Not  in  my  things,"  said  Antoine,  still  very  grave.  "  Be- 
cause it  is  all  right  for  him — ^beautiful  passages — you  un- 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  453 

derstand?  I  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  it,  because  I 
had  seen  very  carefully  how  Ribiera  did." 

"  It  is  designed  for  Ribiera,  hey  ?  Your  modesty,  An- 
toine,  is  magnificent." 

"  It  is  for  Ribiera,  if  he  likes,"  said  Antoine.  "  Only  per- 
haps you  will  not  like  it  first,  hein?  And  then,  for  poor 
Ribiera,  it  is  finished."  He  shot  a  keen  sly  glance  at  the 
critic,  and  went  to  seek  his  "  thing."  When  he  brought  it 
back,  Victor's  thoughts  had  taken  an  excursion,  which  left 
the  "  thing  "  behind. 

"  I  see  you  affiche  with  his  Magnificence,"  he  observed. 
"  Say,  Antoine,  am  I  to  have  the  honour  of  a  place?  " 

"  At  the  concert  ?  " 

"  On  the  programmes.  I  have  not  seen  them,"~as  it  hap- 
pens." 

"  No,"  said  Antoine.  "  You  see,  those  programmes  are 
his." 

"  And  he  dislikes  me,  eh?  " 

"  He  dislikes  everybody  French,  he  says." 

"  Not  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  He  likes  my  playing  with  his,  voila  tout."  He 
looked  rather  haughty,  standing  by  the  hearth,  facing 
Victor  now.  But  his  visitor  was  curious,  and  pressed  for 
details  of  the  rehearsal. 

"  I  think  he  is  mad,"  said  Antoine,  with  a  gesture.  "  He 
plays  only  bits,  and  makes  remarks  on  us,  out  loud,  all  the 
time  he  is  playing.  He  did  not  look  at  the  notes,  but  at  me, 
to  make  me  nervous,  but  I  was  not.  M'en  fiche.  When  I 
led  the  tempo  as  he  liked,  he  said :  *  Decidedly  the  ape  has 
intelligence.'  Then  he  said  to  me — always  playing  beauti- 
fully, you  understand — '  If  you  continue  on  these  lines  you 
will  content  me ' — and  v/hen  I  could  not  stop  laughing,  he 
was  surprised.  Then  in  the  Allegretto,  I  told  him  please 
to  be  quiet,  and  he  was.  And  at  the  end  he  said  I  was  a 
little  devil,  but  had  been  sufficiently  trained,  and  that  would 
do  for  to-day.     And  since  he  did  not  thank  Monsieur  the 


454  SUCCESSION 

other  one,  I  did.  And  Ribiera  said  '  Pourquoi  ? '  and  shut 
the  piano." 

"  He  will  chuck  you  soon,"  Duchatel  decided.  "  Either 
you  will  be  too  impudent,  and  he  will  knock  the  desk  over, 
as  he  did  once  to  Jacques,  or  you  will  be  too  popular,  and 
he  will  overplay  you  deliberately.  That  is  the  more  prob- 
able. He  is  a  charming  person."  Antoine  shrugged, 
haughty  still.    "  Do  you  rehearse  this  week?" 

"  He  has  not  written.  He  said,  not  before  the  New  Year, 
and  I  hope  not,  for  I  cannot  practise  here." 

"If  he  had  a  grain  of  courtesy  he  would  put  it  off,"  said 
Victor. 

"  We  must  rehearse  before  the  sixth,"  observed  Antoine. 
"  I  shall  write  to  him  to-day,  just  to  explain." 

Unable  to  extract  further  gossip,  Duchatel  finally  went, 
having  had  the  roll  of  manuscript  confided  to  his  charge. 
He  took  it  carelessly  enough.  In  the  doorway  he  stood  a 
moment,  and  laid  his  forefinger  on  the  boy's  brow,  a  dainty 
arrogant  little  gesture,  just  like  himself,  and  the  nearest 
he  could  approach  to  caress. 

"  I  should  tell  you,"  he  said,  indifferently  almost,  "  the 
last  time  I  saw  M.  Lemaure,  he  was  troubled  over  a  letter 
from  your  uncle.  He  said  in  passing  he  wondered  whether 
you  were  wasting  time  over  composition."  Victor  waited 
a  minute,  while  the  boy's  eyes  fixed  him  anxiously.  "  I  said 
I  was  sure  you  were  not."  The  anxious  look  wavered  into 
•  a  smile.  "  A  double  entendre,  as  you  perceive.  I  hoped 
he  would  press  me  further  to  explain  it ;  but  he  was  only 
greatly  pleased  that  I  thought  you  a  good  boy." 

"  He  would  not,  if  he  had  seen  some  of  the  things,"  sug- 
gested Antoine. 

"  If  he  had  seen  some  of  the  things,"  Victor  mimicked, 
"  he  might  have  thought  I  was  far  from  a  good  boy  myself 
for  keeping  them  private.     Who  knows  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  Antoine  echoed,  vacantly  rather,  and, 
with  a  little  nod  to  Victor,  turned  back  into  the  deserted 
house. 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  455 

"  I  have  failed,"  Duchatel  found  himself  repeating  as 
he  drove  away.  "  I  have  failed,  though  where,  heaven 
knows.  He  slips  through  the  fingers,  little  oddity,  like  a 
fresh-water  shrimp.  It  is  hardly  the  trouble  to  catch  him 
by  the  tail." 

That  same  evening,  in  his  exquisite  sanctum,  with  the 
scrawled  and  erased  lea'.*es  of  the  pianoforte  quintet  before 
him,  Duchatel  confessed  his  failure  anew,  but  less  lightly. 

I    He  had  had  a  curious  sensation  throughout  that  kitchen 

i  interview,  that  he  was  approaching  some  notable  defeat. 
But  Antoine  had  refrained  for  once  from  striking  with  his 
agile  tongue.     He  had  been  far  quieter  than  usual — dull, 

!  for  him.  He  struck  with  his  pen  instead,  in  a  language  the 
witty  Duchatel  comprehended.     It  was  a  simple  and  most 

t  direct  retort  upon  his  patronage. 

1  "  Great  heavens,"  the  young  man  murmured,  gazing  upon 
the  hieroglyphic  pages  almost  haggardly.  *'  This  is  the 
First  Work,  sent  me  like  a  packet  of  groceries,  and  I  let  it 
lie  for  three  weeks  unopened.  He  is  my  master,  and  I  have 
been  playing  with  him.  The  prating  ass  I  must  have 
seemed,  while  he  was  passing  through  tragedy.  A  flag  of 
the  future,  brought  back  by  another  of  these  untoward  ex- 
cursions of  his.  .  .  ."  Then  he  left  phrases,  and,  over- 
come by  a  thought,  sank  into  a  chair.  "  And  to  think  the 
old  man  could  have  seen  it — died  holding  it — had  I  known 
or  cared." 

Antoine  remained  in  the  kitchen,  and  Philip,  returning 
at  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  discovered  him  alone  there, 
industriously  making  his  bed.  Margot  had  ordained  this, 
it  seemed,  and  left  directions  and  materials.  The  direc- 
tions were  not  lucid,  nor  the  materials  exquisite,  but  An- 
toine found  the  affair,  for  the  moment,  absorbing.  Simple 
as  it  might  seem  to  the  male  mind  to  prepare  something  fit 
to  sleep  on,  Antoine  had  gathered  from  her  remarks  that 
there  was  a  right  way  and  a  wrong  way  of  doing  it.  So 
he  follow^ed  the  right  way  as  indicated  with  attention,  dab- 
bing the  pillows  into  place  with  strict  exactitude,  smoothing 


456  SUCCESSION 

the  outlines  and  surfaces  with  movements  ten  times  as  able 
and  agile  as  Margot's  own.  Having  reached  the  last  stage, 
and  being  about  to  give  his  whole  consideration  to  the  ques- 
tion of  the  finishing  coverlet,  which  was  irregularly  shaped 
and  damaged  in  places — he  became  aware  of  Philip, 
dropped  the  coverlet  on  the  floor,  and  collapsed  himself 
upon  his  construction. 

"  There  was  a  thing  on  little  legs,"  he  announced,  "  that 
went  under  the  carpet  just  now.  It  was  rather  horrible, 
and  I  have  not  looked  for  it." 

"  A  blackbeetle,  I  presume,"  said  Philip. 

"  It  was  not  black,"  said  Antoine.  "  It  was  pink — a  not- 
clean  pink,  you  understand.  I  found  it  " — a  pause — "  dis- 
agreeable." 

"  How  could  you  find  it  when  you  had  not  looked  for 
it  ?  "  said  Philip.  Another  pause,  Antoine  considering  the 
point,  which  was  an  old  one. 

"  You  will  catch  it,"  he  suggested,  shooting  a  soft  glance 
at  his  brother. 

"Why  should  I?"  said  Philip.  "They're  perfectly 
harmless." 

"  I  shall  dream  of  it,"  said  Antoine,  shutting  his  eyes. 
"  It  was  too  long,  do  you  see,  and  pink  as  well."  His  brow 
contracted,  and  he  finished  with  gentle  conviction.  "  If  it 
comes  upon  my  bed  in  the  night,  I  shall  be  sick." 

Philip  observed  him;  as  soon  as  his  eyes  were  shut  he 
looked  ill,  there  was  no  denying.  After  a  minute  the  elder 
moved,  lifted  the  carpet  with  his  foot,  discovered  the 
enemy  according  to  description,  and  another  negroid  variet> 
as  well,  and  flung  both  into  a  pail,  containing  a  certain 
preparation  in  which  Margot  believed.  \ 

"You  had  better  have  your  own  room,  I  should  think,'* 
he  said,  in  a  cool  tone,  when  Antoine's  brow  of  anguish 
cleared,  and  he  opened  his  eyes.  "  It  wouldn't  take  long  tc 
change  the  things,  if  you'd  rather." 

"  No,"  said  the  boy.    "  It  is  nice  and  warm  here — if  they 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  457 

don't  come."  His  vague  gaze  dropped  to  the  line  of  the 
fender  again. 

"  My  aunt  ought  to  be  here  by  now,"  said  Philip,  leaving 
the  question  of  the  rooms,  ''  if  she  took  the  early  boat." 

"  She  cannot  be  here  before  eight,"  said  Antoine ;  and 
proved  conclusively  by  a  string  of  country  trains  his  mem- 
ory provided  that  this  was  so.  As  Philip  did  not  answer, 
he  resumed,  after  a  pause :  "  Where  did  you  go  when  you 
went  out?  " 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  know  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  Oh — not  very  much." 

"Why  do  you  ask,  then?    Just  to  make  conversation?" 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  go  away,"  said  Antoine. 
He  glanced  again  at  the  fender-line,  where  incredible  things 
lay  concealed. 

"  I  don't  mind  reading  here,"  said  Philip.  "  But  if  you 
mean  to  soliloquise,  don't  expect  me  to  answer." 

"  I  shall  not  talk,"  the  boy  promised  hastily.  "  I  will 
only  see  you  a  little,  because  that  is  so  long  I  have  not." 

Philip  smiled  unwillingly.  He  really  was  too  absurd. 
"  I  do  wish  you  would  talk  decent  English,"  he  said,  with 
a  judicial  air,  subsiding  into  a  chair  with  his  book.  "  Lin- 
guistically, you  don't  seem  to  have  made  much  of  your  two 
months  in  England." 

"  Because  I  talked  French  there  all  the  time,"  Antoine 
explained.  "  Wurst  talked  French  to  me,  and  Glenmuir's 
mother,  and  a  lot  of  people." 

"  Glenmuir  did  not,  I  presume,"  said  Philip. 

"  No !  His  French  is  amusing  when  he  tries.  But  when 
he  does  not,"  he  added  dreamily,  "  he  speaks  better  than 
most  English  people." 

"  Really,"  Philip  exclaimed,  "  you'd  better  not  try  to 
criticise !  He  can't  pronounce  English  at  all,  being  born 
west  of  Perth." 

Antoine  was  crushed,  and  Philip  read  five  lines. 

"  There  is  Peter  Axel,"  he  murmured.  "  Perhaps  he 
pronounces  altogether  more  like  papa." 


458  SUCCESSION 

Philip,  outraged,  jerked  anew.  "  Axel  has  the  purest 
Cockney  dialect,"  he  snapped.  "  Really,  one  would  think 
you  had  no  ear." 

"  I  like  to  listen  to  all  of  them,"  Antoine  assured  him. 
"  But  most  of  all  papa.  I  find  papa's  words,  in  English, 
very  good." 

"  Papa's  style  is  not  exactly  literary,"  began  Philip. 
Then  he  subsided.    "  Oh,  bother,  I  won't  argue." 

"  Your  style  is  best  ? "  suggested  Antoine,  not  at  all 
satirical,  but  seeking  light.  Philip  did  not  answer,  though 
he  heard.  Pie  explored  a  diagram  with  attention.  "  I  think 
if  you  talked  to  me  a  lot,  perhaps,"  Antoine  pursued,  "  all 
the  evening,  so  that  I  could  listen  to  make  the  little  sounds, 

and  speak  with  a  still  face "    He  was  practising  as  he 

spoke,  coming  a  good  deal  nearer  to  Philip's  diction  than 
Philip  liked.  "  You  are  not  angry?  "  he  interrupted  himself 
Jn  a  hurry,  as  his  brother  rose  suddenly  and  came  across. 
*  "  Do  you  mind  keeping  your  face  still  ?  "  said  Philip. 
"  Really  still — teeth  together.  Thanks.  Now  remain  like 
that  for  a  period."  With  that  he  turned  again,  but  Antoine 
stretched  a  hand. 

"  Did  you  know  that  I  had  rate  the  solo  at  my  concert  ?  " 
he  said  softly. 

Philip  as  usual  had  not  been  ready  for  him,  and  had  a 
shock.  The  boy  had  simply  wished  to  confide,  as  anyone 
acquainted  with  him  might  have  guessed ;  and  Philip  had 
been  holding  him  at  arm's  length  instead  of  assisting. 

"  I  heard  of  it,"  he  said  awkwardly.     "  Were  you  ill  ? ' 

"  Oh  no.  I  have  not  been  ill  for  a  lot  of  months.  I  don't 
know — how  it  was."  A  cloud  crossed  his  face.  *'  Did  m) 
uncle  tell  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No.    Savigny  did." 

"  My  uncle  had  told  him  ? "  Antoine  sighed,  resigned 
"  Perhaps,  after  these  other  things,  he  will  have  forgotten 
I  wish  I  could  forget."  He  spoke  bitterly,  looking  downj 
"  It  was  all  such  a  stupid  thing." 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  459 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  said  Philip,  taking  a  seat  by  him 
on  the  bed. 

The  boy,  pleased  by  the  attention,  wriggled  a  little  to 
make  room  for  him.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Attends 
— I  will  tell  you  about  it.  The  first  part  had  gone  pretty 
well,  though  I  did  not  like  how  the  Duchatel  sounded.  I 
thought  that  was  the  violin,  perhaps — and  a  new  room.  It 
was  a  bad  room,  pretty,  but  stupid  for  the  sound.  I  heard 
much  too  much,  so  I  was  sure  they  were  not  hearing 
properly.  They  were  extremely  still,  and  made  a  little 
clapping  at  the  end.  I  did  not  find  it  a  good  concert,  but 
Wurst  in  the  interval  said  it  was  very  well,  and  I  should 
not  excite  myself.  So  when  I  did  not,  then  I  was  tired, 
and  it  seemed  stupider  than  before.  And  at  last  that  thing 
came,  the  Mirski  '  Caprice,'  which  you  know  how  detest- 
able. The  passages  are  hard  in  that  thing,  but  I  know 
them.  Every  morning  I  played  them  to  Moricz,  so  now  I 
do  not  trouble.  .  .  .  And  then,  in  the  middle  of  it,  I 
heard  Peter  Axel  playing  wrong.  .  .  .  And  I  was 
frightened,  horribly.  .  .  .  And  I  made  him  an  awful 
frown  for  forgetting  it,  and  Peter  was  looking  at  me.  His 
face  was  not  happy  like  it  generally  is.  It  was  like  one  of 
those  worst  dreams.  And  of  course  I  stopped  playing  al- 
together, because  it  cannot  be  like  that.  And  Peter  said 
*  Go  back,'  very  quietly,  making  a  lot  of  little  passages  and 
returning,  for  me  to  find  it,  do  you  see?  "  His  quick  hands 
illustrated,  as  his  tongue  sought  in  vain  for  the  words. 
"  He  was  perfectly  clever,  and  good  like  the  English — oh, 
mon  Dieu !  "  The  boy's  strong  fist  was  clenched,  and  he 
dropped  it  on  his  brother's  knee  in  his  helpless  fury. 

"  He  gave  you  the  chance  to  pick  up,  eh  ?  "  said  Philip. 
"  And  you  couldn't." 

"Couldn't!  I  would  not!  I  was  furious — awful.  I 
could  remember  nothing.  I  did  not  want  to  think.  I  said 
a  rude  thing  to  Axel  in  passing,  and  went  off  the  estrade. 
And  they  all  clapped  together  down  there,  bah! — though 
they  knew  it  was  not  finished.     They  were  sorry   I  had 


46o  SUCCESSION  ' 

stopped — because  they  were  people  who  like  a  difficult 
Caprice,  to  be  amused  by  it.  But  I  was  not  amused.  Noi: 
Peter,  very  much."    He  laughed  sharply. 

"  Don't,  I  say,"  said  Philip.  "  It's  all  over  now.  It 
doesn't  matter,  really.  Everybody  forgets,  now  and  then." 
He  had  no  idea  in  the  case  how  to  console. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  to 
forget.  I  know  that  thing — I  know  all  the  little  notes,  long 
ago,  before  Moricz — since  years.  It  is  not  possible  to  for- 
get a  little  concert  piece  that  you  know.  That  was  why  I 
was  angry  with  Axel :  and  Wurst,  he  was  angry  with  me." 

"  Did  you  go  on  again  ?  " 

"Yes.  After  Wurst  had  finished  talking,  I  had  to.  I 
should  not  have  for  my  uncle,  but  I  had  to  for  him.  He 
was  violent,  Wurst.  He  stood  for  a  long  time  cursing  me 
— that  is  how  you  say?  He  said  it  was  indigne  and  lache 
if  I  stopped,  and  a  lot  of  other  words.  He  was  like  a  little 
dog  barking.  A  man  like  Wurst  does  not  '  rater,'  he  does 
not  know  how  that  is  done.  His  head  has  all  the  big  scores 
inside,  and  a  little  solo  part  would  not  trouble  him.  Do 
you  think  I  am  talking  better  English  ?  "  He  turned  sud- 
denly to  Philip. 

"  You're  talking  too  well,"  said  Philip,  "  and  too  much. 
You  needn't,  you  know — I  understand." 

"You  understand,  yes."  Antoine's  painful  frown 
cleared  slightly.  "  I  believed  you  would  when  I  made  you 
see.  Wurst  did  not.  He  did  not  see  how  it  was  for  me  to 
stand  up  on  the  estrade  again,  with  quantities  of  beautiful 
people  looking  kind.  It  would  have  been  so  better  if  they 
had  siffle,  like  here  in  Paris." 

"Did  you  cry?"  said  Philip. 

"  Not  then.  Since  Wurst  spoke  of  grandpapa  I  did  not 
want  to,  my  eyes  were  only  hot.  The  Mozart  was  very 
well,  I  think,  though  Axel  played  too  hard.  I  expect  he 
had  been  frightened  too,  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  did  not  look 
at  him  afterwards,  and  since  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  Did  my  uncle  think  it  was  Axel's  fault  ?  " 


I 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  461 


"  No.  Because  I  said  if  he  dared  to  speak  to  him  a  word 
I  would  break  my  bow  and  throw  the  pieces  in  the  fire.  I 
did  not  care — that  night." 

"  Wasn't  Axel  with  you  at  the  last  concert?  " 

"  No.  It  was  with  orchestra.  I  have  not  seen  Peter 
since  then,  that  I  was  rude." 

"Have  you  written?" 

"  No,"  the  boy  said  briefly  again.  "  I  never  write.  Be- 
sides, the  thing  I  said  was  true."  After  a  pause,  he 
shrugged.    "  My  uncle  will  be  pleased." 

"  Did  you  forgive  Wurst  for  cursing  you  ? "  Philip 
pursued,  soon. 

"  Forgive  ?  "  The  boy  looked  up.  "  He  was  right.  The 
concert  was  to  be  finished  since  Mozart  was  on  their  pro- 
grammes. He  is  Fritz's  friend.  Fritz  himself  would  have 
been  more  furious,  and  grandpapa  " — he  shrugged — "  ter- 
rible! I  am  glad  they  were  not  there,  those  two.  That  is 
well  to  remember,  that  grandpapa  will  not  come  to  a  con- 
cert again." 

There  was  a  kind  of  determination,  even  in  his  depres- 
sion, which  baffled  the  consoler.  Philip  gave  it  up  before 
long,  and  went  back  to  his  fireside  chair.  At  least  Antoine 
had  put  words  to  his  sensations,  which  was  something. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  his  real  sympathy,  Philip  felt  a  little 
envious  of  that  power  the  boy  possessed  of  delivering  him- 
self of  such  an  intimate  trouble  by  the  natural  means  of 
speech.  Feeling  so  inordinately,  he  must  otherwise  have 
died  long  since,  Philip  reflected.  Nature  was  to  be  thanked 
for  granting  such  a  safety-valve,  in  this  capacity  of  his  for 
conveying  emotions  in  any  tongue,  granted  always  the  one 
familiar  and  trusted  face  to  look  at  while  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  good  for  that,  at  least,"  thought  Philip,  and 
plunged  into  reading. 

Nothing  further  happened  in  the  quiet  house  till  after 
seven,  when  there  was  a  stir.  But  it  was  not  the  stir,  as 
Philip  hoped  at  first,  of  an  arrival — but  of  a  departure: 


I 


462  SUCCESSION  1 

silent  as  a  departure  could  be,  furtive  almost,  on  soundless 
wings.  M.  Lemaure's  beautiful  spirit  passed  so  quietly 
that  it  slipped  by  the  watchers  and  escaped  unobserved. 
Only  when  the  doctor  moved  to  the  bedside,  and  the  son 
saw  his  face,  did  his  cry  of  sheer  despair  thrill  the  little 
household  through. 

The  cry  was  not  loud,  but  the  quickest  ear  in  the  kitchen 
caught  it.  It  pierced  the  fog  of  slumber  that  had  closed 
down  again,  during  the  interminable  hours  of  waiting, 
about  the  younger  boy.    He  stirred,  moved,  and  sat  up. 

"  Philippe !  "  he  said,  in  the  disturbing  tone  of  the  newly 
awakened. 

Philip  and  the  woman  both  turned,  and  the  former,  at 
his  expression,  arose  swiftly,  dropping  his  book. 

"  Seigneur  Dieu,"  said  Margot,  crossing  herself.  "  What 
did  he  hear?" 

"  What  is  it,  Bebe?"  said  Philip. 

Antoine  watched  the  door  a  minute,  listening.  He  had 
the  movements  of  a  little  animal,  sensitive,  alert  and  silent 
utterly.  Then  he  licked  his  lips,  looked  at  them  just  as  a 
dog  might  do,  as  though  he  would  have  spoken  but  could 
not,  with  anxious,  feverish  eyes,  and  lay  down  again,  his 
head  on  his  arm,  to  wait. 

The  others  were  silent  too,  convinced  of  the  fact  he  had 
signalled,  waiting  only  for  the  unseen  terror  his  eyes  had 
reflected  to  approach.  Philip,  gripping  a  hand  on  the  man- 
tel-shelf, his  book  reversed  at  his  feet,  passed  through  some 
of  the  worst  minutes  of  his  life,  endeavouring  to  master 
nightmare.  Margot,  her  eyes  cast  down,  her  worn  hands 
teasing  a  chaplet,  muttered  prayers.  It  was  long — it 
seemed  an  age — before  the  door  opened,  and  the  new  master 
of  the  house  appeared. 

At  Margot's  low  wail,  Lucien  held  up  a  quick  hand, 
frowning.  He  was  performing  a  duty  which,  as  he  regarded 
it,  he  could  leave  to  no  one  else.  It  was  like  him  to  insist 
obstinately  on  its  fulfilment  before  he  faced  his  private 
grief ;  and  it  was  like  him,  on  this  one  occasion,  entirely  to 


TRAGEDY    FINISHES  463 

miscalculate  his  strength.  His  face  alone,  had  he  known 
it,  would  have  been  enough  to  petrify  the  boys.  His  eyes 
caught  Philip's  tall  tigure  in  the  firelight  first,  and  his  lips 
moved,  forming  his  name ;  but  only  a  hoarse,  strange  sound 
emerged,  and  his  clenched  hand  rose  to  his  throat.  Then, 
abandoning  the  useless  struggle,  he  made  a  sign  to  Margot, 
and  turned,  with  a  hopeless  little  shake  of  the  head,  towards 
his  room.  In  the  blank  awestruck  silence  that  descended 
on  his  departure,  they  heard  him  lock  his  door,  and  even 
the  creak  of  the  chair  as  he  flung  himself  upon  it. 

"  Was — was  it  him  ?  "  whispered  Antoine.  "  Philippe — 
do  not  go " 

But  Philip  had  gone.  Margot  had  gone  also.  Pie  was 
alone  in  a  world  that  held  the  immeasurable  cruelty  of 
such  grief.  The  palace  his  imagination  had  built  of  tragedy, 
to  which  his  quick  foresight  had  added  stone  on  stone, 
which  he  had  torn  every  beautiful  fancy  from  his  mind  to 
decorate,  crowned  with  willing  sacrifice,  strewn  with  mem- 
ories, lit  with  his  fervent  faith — that  structure,  worthy  of 
him  who  inspired  it,  fell  shattering  about  his  ears.  It  was 
gone,  the  world  blank  as  it  can  only  be  to  a  dramatic  nature. 
He  saw  in  its  place  death  the  destroyer,  with  sure  instinct, 
as  the  material  mind  sees  it ;  and  he  shrank,  catching  at  all 
he  knew  of  beauty  to  shelter  him  in  vain. 

With  a  low  moan  of  sorrowful  indignation,  Antoine  sank 
beside  the  pallet  bed,  thrusting  his  clenched  hands  far  from 
him  across  the  torn  coverlet,  and  lay  there  long,  a  figure 
of  passionate  protest  against  things  human,  rather  than  of 
appeal  to  things  divine.  It  was  so  Cecile  Lemaure  found 
him — keeping  guard  as  it  were  in  the  empty  kitchen,  over 
the  deserted  dinner,  all  the  warm  little  sanctuary  of  kind 
and  common  things — when  she  came. 


PART   III 
THE   COST 


Jf 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE   FAMILY 

It  had  been  one  of  M.  Lemaure's  last  spoken  desires  to  his 
son,  that  no  child's  Christmas  should  be  spoilt  for  him. 
He  was  thinking,  as  was  evident,  not  so  much  of  the 
motherless  boys  most  familiar  to  his  hearth,  as  of  the  other 
grandchildren  in  foreign  lands ;  and  it  was  in  express  ac- 
cordance with  this  desire  that  his  younger  sons,  when  they 
arrived  late  in  Christmas  week  in  Paris  for  the  funeral, 
came  without  their  wives. 

Of  these,  Andre,  the  organ-builder  of  Cologne,  was  al- 
ready known  to  Antoine,  Otto  he  had  seen  once  at  Nice 
in  passing  through,  and  Bernard,  the  youngest,  was 
a  stranger.  Two  out  of  these  three  brothers  had  quarrelled 
with  Lucien  at  one  period  or  another  of  their  stormy  youth, 
and  Otto,  languid  and  delicate,  had  made  himself  yet  more 
objectionable  by  his  indifference  to  the  points  at  issue. 
They  had  reconciled  themselves  finally  to  living  apart  with 
great  willingness,  only  meeting,  under  their  father's  aegis, 
at  rare  seasons  of  festivity.  For  the  peculiarity  of  Le- 
maures  was,  that  w'hile  exasperating  one  another  individ- 
ually or  in  pairs,  they  cherished  as  a  whole  an  intense  and 
passionate  pride  of  race,  which,  when  tracked  to  its  origin, 
was  little  more  than  a  pride  in  the  common  possession  of 
their  father.  This  time  their  union  was  too  solemn,  their 
grief  too  sincere,  for  anyone  to  desire  bickering;  and  Lu- 
cien's  family  were  the  more  ready  to  sink  their  differences 
and  meet  him  kindly,  that  Cecile  was  admitted  by  all  to  be 
exquisite,  and  that  his  roof  sheltered  le  petit  Antoine. 
467 


468  SUCCESSION 

The  Lemaures  were  naturally  curious  about  Henriette's 
boys,  for  the  little  sister  had  married  her  strange  English- 
man long  after  all  her  brothers  but  Marcel  and  Lucien  had 
scattered  and  settled  in  life.  Two  had  appeared  from  their 
corners  of  Europe  to  bless  her  nuptials,  and  stare  at  the 
foreigner  Jem;  but  her  children  were  little  more  than 
names  to  them,  and  Antoine's  was  rapidly  becoming  a  name 
of  note.  Both  Otto  and  Andre  owned  a  talented  offspring; 
but,  the  star  of  their  father  having  sunk  from  the  horizon, 
Andre  himself  was  the  first  to  own  that  Antoine  was  the 
Lemaure  of  the  moment,  outshining  either  Andre's  self, 
or  Bernard  his  younger  brother,  or  Helga  his  second  daugh- 
ter, who  had  played  before  the  German  public  now  for  six 
seasons  with  unfailing  success. 

They  all  arrived  in  Paris  knowing  the  facts  about  Antoine 
to  the  minutest  detail;  indeed  they  knew  more  about  his 
"  career "  than  he  did  himself,  as  was  proved  when  his 
cousin  Helga  took  him  to  task  on  the  subject.  Helga  was 
said  to  be  like  Henriette,  "  except  in  appearance  " — a  some- 
what serious  exception.  She  was  not  pretty,  but  she  had 
chic  and  aplomb,  and  possessed,  moreover,  a  furious  ambi- 
tion which  led  to  her  assuming  the  customary  laurels  of  her 
name  at  an  early  age.  Since  then  she  had  been  content 
with  keeping  well  ahead  of  her  local  rivals,  and,  between 
concerts,  tearing  them  to  pieces  with  her  tongue.  The  blood 
of  her  German  mother  showed  at  intervals,  principally  in  a 
kind  of  dogged  persistence  on  points  where  pure  French 
tact  would  have  skimmed  lightly.  She  alarmed  Antoine 
rather,  and  wearied  him  a  little;  and  he  was  thankful  at 
the  first  meeting  when  Mile.  Helga,  having  spied  at  Philip 
in  the  intervals  of  her  examination,  fastened  upon  him 
instead. 

This  was  a  mistake ;  for  Philip,  highly  annoyed  to  be  dis- 
turbed on  such  an  occasion  by  an  ordinary  girl  who  called 
him  cousin  and  wanted  to  flirt,  gave  as  good  as  he  got,  and 
drove  her  routed  from  the  corner  which  he  and  Antoine  had 
chosen  for  their  retirement.    He  felt  though  that  she  would 


THE    FAMILY  469 

not  be  discouraged  for  long,  and  determined,  in  future,  to 
neglect  no  natural  chances  of  escape. 

"  He  is  a  nice  little  boy,"  Helga  said  lightly  of  Antoine, 
as  they  returned  to  their  hotel.  *'  Gentle,  not  such  as  one 
would  expect ;  and  Zep's  drawing  gives  one  a  completely 
wrong  impression." 

"  You  have  not  yet  seen  him  smile,  my  niece,"  said  her 
Uncle  Otto  drily.  "  On  the  contrary,  he  looked  anguished 
during  your  interview." 

"  He  is  sensitive,"  said  Helga  pleasantly.  "  I  tried  to 
penetrate  that  astonishing  affair  of  the  violin,  and  it  seems 
evident  to  me  they  took  no  proper  care  of  it  at  all.  Imagine, 
father,  it  was  not  even  insured — knocking  about  in  the  hands 
of  a  kid — was  grandpapa  not  incredible  ?  " 

"  The  violin  has  been  found,"  said  Andre  gently. 

"  What  ?  "  Helga  shouted. 

"  Hush,  my  dear.  Cecile  told  me  they  had  it  safe,  and 
Lucien  will  restore  it  to  the  little  one  before  the  concert." 

"  Why  not  now,  in  the  name  of " 

"  The  New  Year,"  said  Andre  patiently.  "  It  is  a  little 
plan  for  his  pleasure,  when  these  sad  days  are  past.  He 
cannot  play  at  present." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Helga.  "  He  told  me  he  was  tak- 
ing every  opportunity  when  he  could  sneak  away  out  of 
earshot.  I  should  say  he  is  a  nervous  boy.  He  ought  to 
have  his  violin  immediately,  and  I  shall  tell  Uncle  Lucien." 

"  I  ask  you,  my  dear,  not  to  speak  of  it,"  said  Andre, 
glancing  at  her  once.  "  It  is  important  not  to  excite  him 
unnecessarily ;  and  those  who  know  him  will  manage  best." 

"  It's  his  business,"  said  Helga  rather  sulkily.  "  You 
forget  his  position,  father." 

"  I  do  not  forget  his  position  for  a  moment,"  said  Andre 
strenuously.  "  No  one  could,  who  saw  his  face."  He  turned 
from  her.    "  Has  he  not  some  lines  of  Marcel,  Otto?  " 

The  other  brother  nodded  and  shrugged.  "  I  told  Lucien 
he  should  send  him  south  for  a  period,  and  he  seemed  an- 
noyed.    Lucien  is  so  easy  to  annoy.    One  would  have  said 


470  SUCCESSION 

it  was  simply  common-sense,  if  they  wish  to  get  the  most 
out  of  him  in  the  future."  Otto,  always  delicate,  had  mar- 
ried a  wife  with  money,  and  retired  from  active  professional 
life,  though  he  wrote  cleverly,  and  had  published,  in  bulk, 
more  than  his  father.  His  brothers  could  not  despise  him, 
though  they  were  for  ever  on  the  edge  of  doing  so;  for 
he  was  canny  in  material  affairs,  with  certain  commercial 
instincts  that  ensured  him  success.  Andre  alone  was  kind 
to  Otto,  as  he  was  kind  to  all  the  world.  It  was  on  Andre 
that  Cecile  counted  principally  to  preserve  the  harmony  of 
the  clan,  during  these  critical  days ;  for  Lucien  was  vaguely 
irritable  with  the  long  strain,  and  that  sense  of  insufficiency 
that  always  attacked  him  among  his  brothers  did  not  im- 
prove, his  spirits.  The  remaining  brother,  Bernard,  who 
was  much  the  brightest,  as  well  as  the  youngest  of  the  four, 
was  inclined  to  admire  her  inconveniently ;  and  Cecile,  who 
actually  felt  his  society  a  relief  in  the  weary  land  of  con- 
ventional propriety,  felt  herself  bound  to  snub  him,  and  talk 
wisely  with  the  rest. 

Thus  it  was  with  no  very  great  anticipations  of  pleasure, 
that,  having  protested  in  vain  against  the  necessity,  she 
followed  Lucien's  directions,  and  invited  them  all  to  dine 
quietly  with  her  on  the  day  following  the  funeral.  Even 
the  prospect  of  making  the  best  of  unlikely  materials  did 
not  greatly  enliven  Madame,  whose  main  idea  now  was  to 
protect  her  husband,  and  guard  him  in  his  unusual  condi- 
tion of  helplessness,  from  the  curious  eye  that  insults  true 
suffering.  Lucien  had  said  nothing  of  the  boys,  but  she 
had  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  Philip  ought  to  appear, 
and,  having  issued  the  invitations  as  directed,  she  seized  a 
chance,  and  attacked  him  with  all  her  wiles,  her  little  hands 
on  his  coat  beseechingly. 

"Is  that  girl  coming?"  was  Philip's  first  question. 

"  Helga  ?    We  had  to  ask  her.    She  may  avoid  it." 

"  She  won't,"  said  Philip  gloomily.  "  I  say,  I  want  to 
go  to  the  fellows  to-morrow — most  of  them  are  back  by 
now.    Jespersen  said  he  would  put  me  up  for  the  ni-ht  if 


I 


THE    FAMILY  471 

I  would  go."  His  eyes,  worn  by  his  genuine  grief,  avoided 
hers.     "  I  can't  stand  girls'  chattering,  really." 

"  I  know,  darling;  it  is  hard.  You  see,  I  do  not  want  to 
ask  the  little  one,  he  is  so  worried  with  these  concerts." 
She  hesitated.  "  Well,  what  are  a  few  men,  after  all  ?  I 
will  do  it." 

"  H  it  was  only  men !  "  said  Philip  sheepishly. 

"  It  is  only  they  who  matter.  Go,  dearest,  and  do  not 
smoke  too  much." 

"  Sure  you  can  manage?"  said  Philip,  remorseful  in  his 
relief.   • 

"  Pfui !  When  have  I  ever  failed?  "  And,  pushing  him 
from  her  with  a  pretty  gesture,  Cecile  turned  away. 

"  I  think,"  said  Antoine,  "  1  have  to  go  to  London  to- 
night." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  his  uncle,  on  instinct.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"It  is  Ribiera.  Will  you  see?"  He  handed  the  scrawl 
he  had  just  received,  having  ventured  to  intrude  on  the 
privacy  of  husband  and  wife  in  Lucien's  room,  after  the 
first  breakfast  on  the  morrow  of  the  funeral.  Lucien,  whom 
the  boy  had  seen  only  at  a  distance  for  days,  was  there, 
slowly  tearing  up  a  pile  of  letters  just  answered,  while  his 
wife  in  a  rapid  hand  addressed  others,  black-edged,  for 
the  post.  Lucien,  at  the  name  of  Ribiera,  dropped  the  let- 
ter fragments,  and  took  the  communication  from  the  boy's 
hand  brusquely. 

"  Incredible  !  "  he  jerked,  and  tossed  it  to  his  wife.  Cecile, 
somewhat  curious,  took  it  up  in  turn  and  read  as  follows, 
scrawled  on  a  thick  sheet,  under  a  stamped  London  ad- 
dress : — 

"  Monsieur, — You  will  be  so  obliging  as  to  attend  at 
my  lodging  for  rehearsal  30th  December  at  two  o'clock 
I  precisely. —  "  Ribiera." 


472  SUCCESSION 

"  The  royal  touch,"  Cecile  commented,  amused.  "  Was  it 
posted  in  London?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  the  boy  said. 

"Think?  It  is  the  point,"  said  his  uncle.  "Where  is 
the  envelope?  " 

Antoine  produced  it,  and  it  bore  a  West  London  post- 
mark. 

"I  must  go?"  he  suggested,  resting  his  fingers  on  the 
table. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Lucien.  "  Bah !  why  did  I  not  keep 
the  arrangements  in  my  own  hands?  You  did  not  make  it 
clear  when  you  left.  He  understood  you  were  still  to  be  in 
London,  eh?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine  still  passively.  "  I  wrote  to  him  from 
here.    He  directs  this  himself  to  France." 

He  touched  the  address  in  evidence.  His  uncle  made  a 
sound  of  vexation,  as  much  at  himself  as  the  boy.  His 
mind  was  slower  than  usual,  and  such  mistakes  in  detail 
annoyed  him.  "Was  there  nothing  further?  Why  is  the 
sheet  torn?" 

"  There  was  another  thing — I  did  not  understand."  The 
boy  turned  his  eyes  away  towards  the  window.  "  He  said 
we  would  read  the  quintet  if  there  was  time." 

"The  quintet?  What  quintet?  There  is  none  on  the 
programmes." 

"  There  is  a  piano  quartet  in  the  last  one.  Perhaps  he 
thinks  of  that." 

"  Ribiera  should  know  the  difference.  You  have  prac- 
tised that  quartet  ?  " 

"  No."  A  pause.  "  I  have  practised  nothing,"  said  An- 
toine, looking  out  of  doors  again. 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  play  if  you  have  not  practised? 
Have  you  not  worked  in  the  morning?" 

"  This  morning.  Not  yesterday."  Yesterday  had  been  the 
funeral. 

Lucien  looked  at  Cecile — a  look  of  helplessness  almost. 
"They  cannot  expect  it  of  him,"  he  muttered,  consulting 


THE    FAMILY  473 

the  sheet  anew,  as  though  fascinated  by  the  cool  command. 
"  The  man  is  mad." 

"  If  the  other  man  is  in  London,"  said  Antoinc,  and 
stopped.  "  But  it  is  really  the  sonata  we  must  do  together." 
He  stopped  again,  evidently  troubled  by  his  uncle's  silence. 
"  I  did  say  once  I  should  be  in  London  till  the  New  Year ; 
only  I  had  written  since,  from  here.  I  put  all  the  stamps 
upon  that  letter.  Perhaps  it  is  easier  if  I  go."  He  slipped 
the  sheet  gently  out  of  his  uncle's  slack  hand.  "  Ribiera 
will  pay  the  ticket,  I  expect." 

"  If  you  mention  anything  of  the  sort  to  him "  jerked 

Lucien  nervously.    "  We  have  had  enough  of  that." 

Meanwhile  Madame  Lemaure  had  had  enough  of  them. 
"  Telegraph  to  this  address  that  he  cannot,"  she  directed 
quietly.  "  And  tell  them  to  forward  it  at  once.  The  man  is 
probably  in  Paris  himself  by  now,  and  posted  this  before  he 
started.    Else  it  is  incredibly  cool." 

"  Nothing  is  too  cool  for  him,"  said  Lucien.  However, 
the  pair  of  males  took  in  this  possible  solution :  Antoine's 
brow  slowly  cleared. 

"You  mean  he  is  here,"  he  murmured,  devouring  the 
strange  letter. 

"  Have  you  the  Senor's  Paris  address,  darling?  "  said  his 
aunt. 

"  No.    Victor  will  know  it." 

"  Good.  I  will  call  on  the  Duchatels  during  my  drive. 
I  had  wished  to  acknowledge  her  kindness  yesterday.  I 
will  then  discover  your  tyrant  for  you ;  and  meanwhile  you 
can  practise  your  quartet."  She  put  an  arm  about  him  as  he 
stood. 

"  He  said  a  quintet,"  murmured  Antoine.  "  That  was 
curious." 

"Is  there  no  such  thing?"  laughed  Madame,  thinking 
how  large  his  eyes  looked. 

"  Oh  yes ;  there  are  some,  I  believe."  He  glanced  at  his 
uncle  rather  shyly.  Lucien  had  sunk  back,  as  soon  as  she 
took  command,  into  his  former  weary  attitude.    He  had  left 


474  SUCCESSION 

nearly  everything  thankfully  to  her.  Never  before  had 
her  real  ascendancy  been  so  little  disguised  as  these  latter 
days. 

"  Why  did  you  tear  that  part  off,  imbecile?  "  said  Cecile, 
as  she  rose,  gathering  the  letters  up. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said ;  then  quicker :  "  It  was  stupid 
and  annoyed  me." 

At  his  aunt's  pressure  on  his  shoulder,  he  prepared  to 
leave  the  room  with  her. 

"  Antoine."  On  the  very  threshold  his  uncle's  voice 
made  him  start  and  turn.  "  Here  is  Reuss's  letter.  I  had 
been  forgetting.    Would  you  care  to  see  it,  mon  petit?" 

"  No,  no."  A  spasm  of  absolute  pain  crossed  his  face. 
"  Later,  I  will  read  it."    And  he  went  out  hurriedly. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  letter,"  his  aunt  said,  outside.  Pri- 
vately, she  had  thought  it  sentimental.  "And  there  is  a 
word  for  you." 

"  Yes.    I  cannot  read  it  now.    I  have  to  work,"  he  said. 

"  He  fears  to  be  upset,"  thought  Cecile.  "Of  course  he 
must  know  Reuss.  He  is  just  balanced,  the  child,  no  more. 
Must  you  go  upstairs  ?  "  she  asked  him,  with  a  little  grimace. 

"  Of  course,  with  that  to-morrow.  I  had  not  thought  it 
would  be  so  soon.  Even  now,  I  do  not  know  which  we 
take."  He  sighed  sharply.  "  I  wish  he  would  write  clearly, 
that  man.  Mine  was  very  clear,  to  him."  He  looked  round 
at  her.    "  Is  it  to-night  my  uncles  come?" 

"Yes,  darling.  But  I  shall  arrange  for  you  to  dine  in 
your  room.  Those  who  rise  early  should  sleep  early  too. 
You  will  be  missed,  of  course,  but  not  wanted,"  she  added, 
with  a  little  smile. 

"You  will  miss  me?"  he  inquired,  and  she  answered  as 
though  jesting: 

"  But  I  most  of  all." 

When  he  was  on  the  stairs  he  shot  back  at  her :  "  You 
will  find  out  whether  it  is  to  go  to  London  ?  " — gave  her  a 
sudden  smile  over  his  shoulder,  and  went  on  up  the  flights 
to  the  roof.     Under  the  roof  he  spent  the  morning  hours, 


■1 


THE   FAMILY  475 

half  in  playing  feverishly,  half  in  puzzling  over  the  torn 
fragment  that  had  been  Ribicra's  postscript,  which  he  had 
concealed  in  an  inner  pocket,  by  the  window. 

Meanwhile  his  aunt,  dressed  and  veiled  to  go  out,  and 
opening  the  outer  door,  found  an  equally  perfect  figure 
facing  her — Victor  Duchatel. 

"  Cecile,"  he  murmured,  clasping  her  hand.  "  How  ad- 
mirable. Yesterday  I  only  saw  you  afar,  since  I  could 
not  leave  my  mother." 

"  It  was  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  returning  his  greeting 
with  friendly  emphasis.  "  We  were  flattered  and  touched 
by  your  mother's  presence,  I  was  coming  to  thank  you,  and 
for  other  matters.    You  will  accompany  me,  hein  ?  " 

"  I  sought  your  husband,  really.  My  business  concerns 
him."  At  her  lifted  hand  he  added  quickly:  "Is  business 
not  mentioned  ?  " 

"  Is  it  urgent?  "  she  returned  the  question. 

"  Urgent,  as  I  see  it ;  but  I  may  be  selfish.  I  need  to 
unburden  myself,  and  I  barely  had  the  decency  to  spare  him 
yesterday,  though  I  did  contain  it.    I  cannot  see  him,  then?  " 

"  He  would  say  yes,"  she  said.  "  But  in  fact,  he  is  not 
fit  to  bear  anything  further.  Will  you  not  burden  me  tem- 
porarily, Victor,  and  let  me  take  my  time?" 

Duchatel  paused,  considering  her,  with  a  raised  brow 
that  added  to  his  apparent  age.  For  all  that,  the  years  had 
treated  him  kindly,  she  was  reflecting,  for  his  age  was  little 
short  of  her  own. 

"  I  am  remorseful,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  humiliated.  To 
humiliate  myself  before  you,  Madame,  is  clearly  easier  than 
before  Lucien.  Consequently  " — he  paused — "  I  fear  I  must 
defer  my  penance.    You  will  forgive  me,  hein  ?  " 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  and  drive  with  me.  I 
have  a  terrible  need  for  air." 

"  My  faith,  I  believe  it.  Is  the  whole  gang  still  upon  your 
hands?  " 

"  Until  to-night.  They  have  not  quarrelled  yet,  thanks  to 
my  management." 


476  SUCCESSION 

"  Lucien  is  hardly  quarrelsome,"  he  suggested. 

"  Poor  Lucien — no.  Find  me  a  nice  carriage,  Victor. 
Settle  everything.     I  am  tired  of  directing." 

He  laughed,  and  did  so.  They  drove  by  the  river,  in  the 
pleasant  comradeship  that  exacts  no  effort.  She  threw 
back  her  heavy  veil,  v^elcoming  the  wind  after  days  of  se- 
clusion. After  a  period  of  silence,  her  fair  little  face  recov- 
ered some  of  its  animation. 

"  How  is  the  little  one?  "  he  asked,  soon. 

"  Antoine — fairly  well.     I   wish  he  could  rest  a  litile. 

Imagine  Ribiera "    And  to  beguile  the  way  she  related 

the  incident  of  the  letter.  Victor,  who  had  personal  experi- 
ence of  the  man,  at  once  endorsed  her  explanation  of  the 
address,  and  seemed  by  no  means  surprised  at  such  an  over- 
sight. 

"  He  is  in  Paris,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  him  myself  last  night 
at  his  rooms." 

"  Excellent,"  she  said,  and  stored  the  address.  "  Pauvre 
petit,  he  will  be  relieved.  He  was  quite  prepared  to  go  back 
to  London  at  his  bidding.  Do  you  think  the  man  bullies 
him,  Victor?  " 

"  No,"  said  Duchatel.  "  Ribiera  is  interested,  I  can 
answer  for  that.  His  interest  has  survived  the  first  re- 
hearsal. He  is  only  thoroughly  spoilt,  and  thinks  the  whole 
world  ordered  to  accommodate  him.  He  takes  fancies  like 
a  monarch,  and  dismisses  those  who  fail  to  suit  him  to  the 
devil." 

"  That  is  where  I  incline  to  dismiss  him,"  said  Madame, 
"  when  I  see  the  child's  eyes  coming  out  of  his  head.  He 
was  happier  with  little  Axel." 

"  We  drove  Antoine  yesterday,  as  you  know,"  said  Vic- 
tor. "  Mamma  enlarged  upon  his  appearance  the  whole 
way  home.  She  punished  me  sedulously — she  little  knew 
with  what  justice." 

"  My  dear  Victor !  " 

"  Frankly,  Cecile,  do  you  think  he  should  be  playing?  " 

"  Frankly,"  said  Madame  calmly,  "  I  think  it  absurd," 


THE   FAMILY  477 

"  Absurd — and  unnecessary,  surely."  She  shrugged. 
"  Should  we  not  protest,  and  soon  ?  " 

"  Why  soon?    Let  me  tell  you,  it  is  a  bad  moment." 

"  Soon,"  explained  Victor,  "  because  I  arrive  to-day  ex- 
citable, and  it  may  go  off.  I  wish  to  preserve  the  excite- 
ment, which  is  both  agreeable  and,  I  feel  sure,  salutary." 

Madame  glanced  at  him,  weighing  it,  as  it  were.  "  Do 
you  represent  your  mother  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Heaven  forbid !    Do  you  represent  your  husband  ?  " 

''  Among  others,"  said  Cecile.  "  My  private  view  has 
been  shaken  a  little,  though  heaven  knows  I  am  indignant. 
You  see,  I  have  been  studying  their  view,  for  three  labori- 
ous days." 

"  The  Lemaures  ?  " 

"  Yes.    It  is  interesting,  really." 

"  Don't  be  interested — be  indignant,"  he  entreated  her. 
"  Or  I  shall  grow  merely  interested  too.  And  that  will 
never  solve  the  situation." 

"  What  do  you  contribute  to  the  situation — tell  me  that." 

"  That  is  to  begin  my  confession,"  he  objected.  "  I  have 
materials  which  Savigny — everybody,  I  believe — has  over- 
looked." 

"  Aha !  "  Her  bright  eyes  pierced  him.  "  Well,  I  do  not 
ask.  I  will  give  you  materials  instead,  which  may  be  new 
to  you.  You  may  not  have  heard  that  my  father-in-law 
bequeathed  the  boy  the  Stradivarius,  with  a  written  mes- 
sage— I  would  give  it,  but  that  I  fear  to  misquote.  En 
somme,  there  is  but  the  one  trareer  for  him — it  was  an 
*  idee  fixe.' " 

"  I  could  have  unfixed  it,"  Victor  murmured.  "  Here  is 
the  penalty.     .     .     ,     Cecile,  how  did  the  child  receive  it?  " 

"  Very  quietly.  He  was  not,  I  think,  surprised.  He  at- 
tacked the  lawyer,  to  our  astonishment,  with  a  question  or 
two.  Whether  he  possessed  it  at  present  in  such  a  sense 
as  to  be  able  to  give  it  away ;  and  to  whom  it  would  pass  in 
the  event " 

"Well — in  what  event?" 


478  SUCCESSION 

She  had  shut  her  eyes.  "  My  brain  is  not  as  clear  as  his," 
she  laughed.  "  I  suppose  he  meant,  in  the  event  of  his  dy- 
ing under  age." 

"  He  wished  to  secure  it  to  your  husband  ?  " 

"  He  was  formally  apologetic.  He  evidently  thought  it 
was  Lucien's  by  right." 

"  Was  Lucien  hurt  ?  "  said  Duchatel,  after  a  pause. 

"Remarkably  dignified.  The  Lemaures  do  those  things 
perfectly.  Whether  he  had  been  hurt  in  the  past  I  cannot 
say,  but  it  seemed  a  thing  '  entendue ' — a  compact.  He 
made  the  presentation  before  all  the  family,  and  read  the 
message  in  a  manner  that  stirred  us  all." 

"  Cruel,"  said  Duchatel  softly.  Then,  at  her  little  move- 
ment: "Forgive  me,  Cecile ;  but  you  must  see  the  injus- 
tice of  it.  You  must  see  that  such  a  message  is  a  whip,  no 
less.  Armed  with  that,  and  this  portentous  gift — for  a 
thing  so  valued  by  his  family  is  portentous — Lucien  could 
drive  that  boy  where  he  will.  And  before  the  conclave — 
every  member  of  which  knew  of  his  breakdown,  hein?  It  is 
cruel,  simply." 

"It  is  fate,"  said  Madame.  "A  family  character  is 
that.  The  cruelty  of  fate,  if  you  will,  but  the  Lemaures 
can  only  see  in  the  one  way.  They  drank  once  of  this  pe- 
culiar draught  of  fame — you  admit  the  performer's  draught 
to  be  more  heady  than  the  writer's  ?  " 

"  I  should  admit  it,"  said  Duchatel. 

"  Well,  they  have  lost  one  claim  to  it — they  seize  upon  the 
next.  So  far  as  I  have  talked  to  Lucien's  brothers,  there 
is  but  one  that  sees  reason,  our  reason,  even  faintly ;  and  he 
is  a  worthless  infirme,  who  potters  over  his  tonics  daily. 
Andre  and  Bernard  are  strong  men  and  keen  musicians — 
devoted  both  to  their  father.    Lucien  you  know.    Now  they 

have  to  support  their  will  their  great  man's  dying  word " 

"  Which  Lucien  wrote,"  said  Victor. 
"  God  knows,"  she  said,  frowning  slightly.     "  I  have  not 
accused  him." 

"  Forgive  me  again — I  am  unpardonable."    There  was  a 


THE   FAMILY  479 

pause.  "  Well  " — he  gazed  at  her,  sitting  motionless,  for 
the  carriage  had  stopped  at  his  door — "  I  own  the  position 
makes  me  hesitate.  You  see  me  cooling,  Cecile.  The  brain 
cools  me  rapidly,  and  the  contact  of  your  brain  serves  for 
two.  I  feel,  for  instance,  that  we  have  served  Antoine 
greatly  by  this  conversation.  Have  you  any  further  light 
for  me,  before  I  join  mamma?  " 

"  Only  this — while  we  hesitate,  Jem  will  act.  Jem  cared 
for  the  dead,  but  he  cares  nothing  for  messages  from  the 
dying.    No  man  of  sober  judgment  does." 

"  You  speak  of  the  father?    I  thought  he  was  indifferent." 

"  He  appears  so,  entirely,  and  to  the  last  moment.  Then 
he  acts  suddenly,  and  wins.  In  that  fashion,  some  per- 
form impossibilities." 

"Was  that  how  he  won  Mademoiselle  Lemaure?" 

"  Exactly  like  that.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he 
accomplished  an  impossibility  there.  I  have  regarded  him 
as  superhuman,  ever  since." 

"  You  think  he  is  so  superhuman  as  to  be  above  ambition 
for  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Easily,  according  to  our  notions.  He  regards  Antoine 
as  a  baby  in  life.    He  says  he  is  half  educated." 

Victor  laughed.    "  Is  he  a  fool  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least ;  enormously  serious.  We  have  talked," 
said  Madame,  lifting  her  fine  brows,  "  late  on  June  nights, 
beneath  the  lime-trees  in  my  garden.    He  has  ideals,  Jem." 

'*  What  are  those?  "  asked  Victor. 

"  They  sprout  in  England  and  Germany— and  flourish  in 
America.  They  are  inconvenient  in  society  at  times,  but 
they  keep  their  owners  fresh.    Jem  is  fresh,  marvellously." 

"  It  is  a  quality,"  said  Victor,  appearing  to  ponder,  "  that 
I  have  noted  in  Antoine's  work.  Do  not  suggest  he  has 
ideals  too." 

"No,  no,"  said  Madame,  reassuring;  and  he  laughed 
again,  and  sprang  from  the  car. 

"  You  are  delicious,  Cecile;  fresher  than  flowers  yourself. 
I  am  years  younger,  always,  for  talking  with  you — more 


48o  SUCCESSION 

content  with  fate;  since,  had  I  married,  you  would  have 
made  me  regret  it  at  every  meeting.  .  .  .  Only,  I  re- 
proach myself  still." 

She  only  laughed  at  him  as  he  stood  before  her  in  his 
unperturbed  perfection,  and  signed  to  the  driver,  whereat 
Duchatel  made  a  gesture,  a  bow,  and  went  his  way. 

The  family  dinner,  as  may  be  imagined,  was  a  matter  of 
importance  in  the  kitchen.  Margot's  term  of  service,  as 
she  knew  too  well,  approached  its  end,  for  la  petite  Yvonne, 
as  she  called  Madame's  bright-eyed  maid,  was  more  than 
capable  single-handed  of  supplying  the  wants  of  the  little 
household  for  the  period  of  occupation  that  remained.  But 
Margot  was  allowed  to  stay  on  sufferance,  being  a  friend 
to  whom  all  were  indebted,  and  on  this  occasion  her  interest 
was  assured  and  her  assistance  of  especial  value;  for  she 
had  a  surprising  and  intimate  knowledge  of  the  brothers' 
tastes,  their  prejudices  and  partialities  in  all  that  apper- 
tained to  the  important  question  of  food.  Thus  M.  Andre, 
she  informed  Yvonne,  drank  beer;  M.  Otto  was  accustomed 
to  the  cuisine  a  I'huile  of  the  south,  and  was  forbidden  ice, 
which  M.  Bernard,  on  the  other  hand,  adored.  Cette  demoi- 
selle, she  reckoned,  mattered  less,  and,  since  her  own  petits 
were  not  there,  Helga  could  give  her  attention  to  the  pastry. 
Soup  was  of  an  importance  which  could  hardly  be  exagger- 
ated— and  all  the  Lemaures  had  a  keen  eye  to  coffee. 

"  Monsieur  Antoine  loves  coffee,"  Yvonne  murmured, 
as  she  counted  the  cups.  She  was  tactful  with  Margot,  and 
seemed  to  follow,  though  she  led. 

M.  Antoine  was  no  exception,  but  he  was  not  allowed  it. 
"  You  would  do  well  to  keep  the  door  shut,  ma  petite,  while 
it  is  made.  Otherwise "  Margot  nodded  her  experi- 
ence of  boys  in  the  house. 

Yvonne  took  Antoine  his  supper  when  the  company  in  the 
dining-room  had  been  served.  As  soon  as  the  connecting 
doors  were  opened,  he  sniffed  the  air  with  an  awakened  eye. 

"  I  want  some  coffee,"  he  observed  to  her  brusquely.  "  It 
smells  good." 


THE    FAMILY  481 

"  It  is  not  recommended,"  Yvonne  suggested.  "  Here 
are  many  nice  things." 

"  I  am  not  hungry — I  am  only  thirsty.    Bring  me  some." 

Yvonne  reported  this  behaviour  to  Margot.  "  He  is  in 
a  bad  humour,"  she  added.  "  A  Httle  coffee  might  appease 
him,  eh  ?  " 

"  Bon — ga  recommence !  "  said  Margot.  "  It  might  be 
fifty  times,  since  his  iUness,  that  Monsieur  has  explained  to 
him.    He  has  but  to  smell  it,  and  all  is  forgotten." 

She  returned  with  Yvonne  to  the  garret  room.  Antoine 
was  thrown  across  the  large  chair,  facing  his  violin,  which 
lay  upon  the  bed.  They  stood  to  either  side  of  the  chair 
and  argued.  Antoine,  sniffing  the  coffee,  mocked  himself  of 
both.  He  was  subtle,  cajoling  the  weaker  Yvonne;  he  was 
naughty,  calling  Margot,  who  remained  stern,  a  rough  name. 
Then,  discomfiting  both  alike,  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the 
score  of  the  piano  quartet  that  lay  open  over  his  knees,  and 
cried.  The  women  looked  at  one  another,  and  withdrew 
softly  to  consult. 

"  Those  great  books  of  Monsieur's  are  too  hard  for  him," 
said  Margot.  "  Music  is  to  play — one  should  not  watch  it 
for  hours ;  it  is  not  natural.  When  he  does  that,  one  knows 
what  follows.  His  eyes  get  dark  like  that,  his  voice  im- 
patient, and  he  is  ill.    It  was  the  same  at  nine  years  old." 

"  He  is  enerve  because  he  has  to  play  to-morrow,"  the 

girl  said.     "  He  is  frightened,  and  so  rude.     It  was  so  in 

England  all  these  last  times.    It  is  a  pity  Monsieur  Philippe 

is  not  here ;  but  since  he  is  not,  I  must  try.    Give  me  a  very 

'.  little  coffee  in  a  cup." 

i      She  forgot,  for  the  moment,  and  commanded.     She  car- 
i  ried  the  cup  in  to  the  boy,  and  stood  before  him  with  it, 
j  equally  pleasant  and  determined. 
I      "  Voila,  cheri,"  she  said.     "  Now  give  me  the  book." 

Antoine,  as  he  reached  for  the  coffee,  tried  to  maintain  a 
i  hold  upon  the  quartets.  "  I  do  not  know  it  yet,"  he  argued. 
1      "  Monsieur  can  play  some  to-morrow  morning.     At  night 


482  SUCCESSION  ! 

it  is  bad  for  his  eyes.     Voyons."     She  drew  it  out  of  his  , 
grasp. 

"  I  shall  think  of  it,"  he  threatened,  staring  through  her 
in  his  wide-eyed,  restless  fashion.  "  All  the  parts — all  night. 
There  are  no  quintets  in  that  book,  Yvonne.  I  looked  in  the 
index." 

"  Tiens,"  said  Yvonne.  "  Has  Monsieur  lost  something?  " 
He  was  so  soft,  really,  she  reflected;  so  easy  to  manage,  for 
all  his  occasional  violence.  He  was  essentially  reasonable, 
M.  Antoine ;  only  why  the  devil  did  they  plague  him  with  all 
this  music  when  he  was  mourning  Monsieur?  He  might 
have  been,  like  herself,  a  servitor  of  that  ring  of  men  who 
sat  in  the  dining-room,  instead  of  the  most  intimately  con- 
cerned, the  most  easily  affected,  the  true  heir  of  those  deli- 
cate endearing  qualities  which  none  who  had  served  "  Mon- 
sieur "  in  that  house  could  ever  forget. 

"  There  are  not  many  quintets  with  piano  altogether," 
Antoine  addressed  her.  "  M.  Duchatel  has  one.  I  sent  it 
to  him  lately." 

"  I  could  fetch  it  for  Monsieur  to-morrow,"  said  the  girl ; 
and  he  laughed. 

"  I  do  not  need  you  to  fetch  it,"  he  said.  "  Because  I 
know  it  very  well." 

"  Cher  petit,"  said  Yvonne,  relieved  at  his  smile. 

"  I  can't  play  it,"  explained  Antoine.  "  There  are  some 
hard  things.  But  I  know  how  it  goes  together ;  and  that  is 
the  important,  you  understand." 

Yvonne  understood :  certainly.  She  quite  liked  to  be  lec- 
tured to,  only  suggesting  by  the  way  that  the  lecturer  should 
eat  his  supper.  Antoine  took  one  small  grape  from  the 
tray  and  nibbled  it. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  lead  the  strings,"  he  said,  gazing  past 
her.  "  The  other  violin  part  is  interesting  too.  They  are 
all  interesting,  and  rather  hard.  It  would  have  to  be  good 
men.  Jacques — oh  yes,  Jacques  the  first,  with  the  Stradi- 
varius  if  he  wished.  Not  with  my  little  poor  one,  though  he 
likes  it.     That  he  would  give  me,  just  to  do  a  quiet  little 


THE    FAMILY  483 

inside  part  together.  Nobody  to  look  at  us  with  round  faces 
in  long  rows.  That " — he  pointed  suddenly  in  front  of  him 
with  dramatic  contempt — "  would  be  left  at  home.  Three 
violins,  as  well  as  Ribiera's  hands,  that  would  be  ridiculous 
to  imagine.  Jacques — oh,  I  am  tired  of  thinking !  "  He 
swerved  aside. 

"  Monsieur  need  not  think  any  more,"  said  Yvonne, 
"  since  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  All  arranged,  yes,"  he  said,  and  laughed  again.  "  To 
play  a  thing  that  Duchatel  will  not  read,  with  a  lost  violin, 
and  a  dead  man.  Jacques  is  dead,  since  papa  and  grandpapa 
said  he  was  to  be.  Grandpapa  is  dead  too,  at  Montparnasse 
— and  my  little  *  giocoso  '  was  made  so  nice  for  him  to  hear." 

The  girl  stood  transfixed ;  for  the  utterance  had  ranged 
through  a  tense  bitterness  to  passion,  and  so  to  a  most  child- 
ish pathos  in  the  last  phrase,  he  lying  motionless  the  while. 
Frenchwise,  she  could  have  applauded,  had  it  not  alarmed 
her ;  for  as  always  with  this  boy,  the  acting  was  a  little  too 
good.  She  laid  the  large  book  she  held  beside  the  violin  on 
the  bed,  and  came  back  to  the  chair's  side. 

"  Cheri,  you  must  go  to  bed,"  she  said.  "  You  have  had 
too  much.  Here  is  your  own  bed  for  you  to-night,  and  I 
will  warm  it." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  moving  and  frowning  slightly.  "  I 
must  go  in  to  say  bonjour  to  those  people." 

"  But  you  need  not.  JMadame  does  not  expect  it — no, 
nor  he.    They  wish  you  to  rest  well,  before  to-morrow." 

"  It  is  important,  hein?  "  he  said  gravely.  "  Perhaps  the 
last  rehearsal,  so  I  must  be  well.  I  must  be  good,  too — 
serious,  since  one  is  *  en  deuil.'  It  is  a  time  to  be  most 
good,  just  now."  He  thrust  his  clenched  fists  from  him, 
"  And  that  Ribiera,  who  cannot  write  his  letters,  I  should 

like   to "     Then,   almost   in   the    same   movement,   he 

swung  himself  up.  "  I  like  Uncle  Andre,"  he  informed  her. 
"  He  is  a  little  like  grandpapa,  when  you  have  forgotten  a 
few  things.     I  like  Uncle  Bernard,  too,  his  eyes  are  amus- 


484  SUCCESSION 

ing  when  he  talks.  They  are  not  bad  people.  They  would 
be  sorry,  very,  if  I  spoilt  Ribiera's  concert." 

"  Monsieur  could  not,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  No,  I  could  not ;  you  know  that.  I  like  to  talk  to  you, 
Yvonne."  He  swung  his  arms  about  her.  "  I  can  play 
everything  in  the  world  without  studying,  hein? — since  I 
have  been  to  Moricz." 

"  Monsieur  is  very  clever,"  said  Yvonne,  with  convic- 
tion. "  We  are  very  proud  of  him.  But  he  must  not  excite 
himself,  for  then  he  will  not  sleep." 

"  No,"  he  said,  his  tone  changing  anew.  "  I  will  wait 
a  little,  and  perhaps  eat  some  of  this,  until  they  come  out. 
I  shall  hear  them  very  well."  He  added,  as  he  turned  his 
back  on  her :    "  The  coffee  was  very  nice.     Tell  Margot." 

Yvonne,  disturbed  as  she  was,  accepted  the  dismissal, 
and  left  him  at  once. 

"  II  me  trouble,"  she  confided  to  IMargot.  "  On  devrait 
faire  plus  attention.     Ca  fait  penser  a  il  y  a  deux  ans. 

Enfin !  "    The  movement  of  her  hands  supplied  speech, 

and  the  other  woman  only  shrugged.  Monsieur  prostrated 
— Madame  wrapped  up  in  him — what  would  you  have? 
They  went  about  their  business  in  silence. 

Meanwhile  things  had  gone  stiffly  in  the  dining-room, 
despite  all  Madame's  efforts,  and  the  excellent  food.  Lucien 
did  his  best,  but  his  best  was  automatic  response  to  direct 
question,  and  of  entertainment  in  his  father's  sense  he  was 
incapable.  His  younger  brothers  could  not  be  other  than 
critical,  when  he  presided  at  that  table  above  all ;  and  he 
suffered  the  more  from  that  cruel  illusion  of  domestic  ease 
and  cheerfulness  that  such  a  family  gathering  gives,  when 
true  ease  is  the  last  thing  attainable.  His  glance  fell  on 
his  wife  almost  piteously  from  time  to  time;  and  she,  gal- 
lant as  she  was,  felt  that  she  was  striving  socially  against 
an  overwhelming  weight  of  circumstance. 

Andre  alone  was  of  any  assistance ;  for  Bernard,  bound 
to  control  his  natural  spirits,  was  rather  sulky,  and  Otto 


THE    FAMILY  485 

infuriated  them  all  by  choosing  the  more  conspicuous  of 
the  pauses  from  which  the  dialogue  suffered,  to  sigh  heavily. 
This  was  merely  Otto's  way;  but  as  he  barely  contributed 
otherwise  to  the  entertainment,  the  proceeding  was  the 
more  resented.  As  for  Helga,  she  made  no  secret  of  her 
opinion  that  the  whole  affair  was  exceedingly  dull,  and  worse 
than  the  funeral,  where  there  had  at  least  been  several 
academicians  to  look  at.  Bernard,  to  whom  she  confided 
this  opinion  in  German,  appeared  faintly  amused.  Helga 
interested  him  as  being  a  variety  on  the  family  type ;  but  she 
was  not  a  pretty  girl,  and  he  soon  turned  from  her  to  gaze 
wistfully  at  Cecile  again.  His  niece  talked  on  undismayed, 
her  voice  rising  steadily;  and  Madame,  who  detested  her, 
and  made  the  sentiment  a  little  too  evident,  tried  to  cut  her 
off  in  vain.  She  had  any  amount  of  experiences  to  offer; 
for  though  her  uncles  had  been  three  times  as  long  in  the 
walks  of  the  profession  as  Helga,  she  soon  showed  that 
she  had  no  intention,  in  these  matters,  of  sitting  at  her 
elders'  feet.  They  had  but  to  start  the  most  innocent  dis- 
cussion bordering  on  art  to  be  drowned  by  smart  anecdotes 
of  modern  scuffles  and  rivalry,  and  the  student  gossip  that 
is  more  wearisome  than  all  to  the  grown  musician. 

Occasionally  only  Helga  interrupted  her  bright  conversa- 
tion to  stare  fixedly,  whether  at  some  opinion,  some  eatable, 
or  some  method  of  service  that  was  new  to  her.  Yvonne, 
the  maid,  was  not  exempt  ft-om  her  attention,  and  Yvonne, 
flitting  clear-eyed  and  light-footed  round  the  table,  with  a 
dry  glance  at  the  young  lady  now  and  then,  presented  a 
natural  contrast  the  critic  Bernard,  at  least,  could  not  miss. 

"  You  had  better  have  invited  la  petite,  there,"  Bernard 
confided  to  his  hostess,  who  agreed  profoundly,  though  she 
frowned  at  him ;  for  Bernard,  much  given  to  confidence, 
had  a  particularly  clear-cut  articulation ;  and,  with  the  for- 
tunate exception  of  Helga,  everybody  at  the  table  heard  the 
remark,  including  Yvonne  herself  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  In  trying  to  copy  Henriette,  she  has  become  a 
caricature,"  muttered  Madame,  and  rose  in  despair  to  change 


486  SUCCESSION 

the  scene,  since  the  occupation  of  feeding  could  be  pro- 
tracted no  longer. 

In  the  other  room  it  was  worse;  for  even  the  ordinary 
resource  at  Lemaure  gatherings  of  music  was  denied  them. 
Howsoever  the  brethren  might  clash,  in  constitution  or 
opinion,  they  could  always  play  together.  All  the  materials 
of  harmony  were  present,  as  Bernard  satirically  agreed, 
when  his  sister-in-law,  glancing  round  the  company,  hinted 
the  idea  to  him  low-toned.  He  was  himself  a  fine  violoncel- 
list, Andre  played  two  or  three  instruments,  even  Otto  was 
more  than  capable  of  sustaining  a  part. 

"  It  would  shock  them,  I  suppose,"  said  Madame,  appeal- 
ing pathetically  to  the  least  conventional  brother. 

"  Andre  and  Lucien  have  survived  shocks,"  said  Bernard. 
"  Marcel  and  I,  not  to  mention  Henriette,  kept  their  nerves 
in  practice.  It  is  not  so  much  that,  Cecile,  as  that  if  we 
began.  Mademoiselle  our  niece  would  play  to  us  all  the 
evening." 

"  Zut !  "  muttered  Cecile,  and  turned  away.  "  Well,  talk, 
Bernard.    Talk  her  down,  if  you  wish  to  earn  my  gratitude."  ' 

Bernard  buckled  to  the  task.  He  was  only  lazy,  and  far 
from  incapable  when  spurred,  and  he  was  really  anxious 
to  serve  her.  Avoiding  the  snare  of  professional  small  talk, 
he  instituted  general  gossip  on  some  of  the  notables  at  the 
funeral,  as  a  bait  likely  to  attract  Lucien.  Such  openings 
as  failed  he  tossed  aside,  and  picked  up  others,  amusing  him- 
self by  the  way,  and  daring  ever  a  little  more  as  he  ad- 
vanced. 

"  Raymond  Savigny  seems  more  toque  than  ever,  Lucien," 
was  one  of  his  efforts.  "  I  ventured  the  mildest  inquiry  as  tO' 
the  safest  cures  for  insomnia,  and  he  said  the  only  cure  he 
could  recommend  by  experience  was  to  remain  as  he  had 
done,  three  nights  on  his  legs.  Tasteful,  hein,  to  me?  He 
really  boasts,  that  fellow." 

"  I  tried  him  for  an  hour  on  psychology,"  said  Andre, 
"  and  could  get  no  sense  out  of  him.  He  is  a  singularly 
restless  person."    Andre,  sleepy  after  food,  shut  his  eyes. 


THE    FAMILY  487 

Otto,  in  the  pause,  sighed  deeply.  "  I  asked  Savigny  if 
he  knew  of  a  quiet  place  in  the  environs,  to  which  one  could 
retire  for  a  course  of  massage,  and  his  only  answer  was  to 
deluge  me  with  prospectuses.    Stuffed  with  them,  he  was!  " 

"  That's  what  made  him  such  an  odd  shape,  was  it?  "  said 
Bernard.  "  Yes,  I  heard  that  dialogue ;  and  when  poor  Otto 
asked  if  the  heating  arrangements  of  the  new  institute  were 
to  be  trusted,  Raymond  said  they  would  be  when  the  roof 
was  on.  No,  he  is  toque,  really.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  nowa- 
days with  a  case  of  measles." 

"  Well,"  said  Lucien,  "  a  good  half  of  the  amateur  world 
here  considers  him  toque.    I  believe  Raymond  enjoys  it." 

The  answer,  the  barely  disguised  snub  of  an  elder  brother, 
had  a  damping  effect.  Bernard  had  had  no  intention  but  to 
be  agreeable,  since  Lucien  and  Raymond  had  always  been 
considered  adversaries.  The  younger  would  have  retorted, 
but  he  happened  to  see  Lucien's  look  as  he  rose  to  snip  his 
ash  into  the  grate,  and  glancing  at  Cecile,  desisted.  Instead, 
he  leant  to  Andre,  and  awakening  him  by  degrees,  prodded 
him  privately  to  make  the  move. 

''  It  won't  do,  really,"  said  Bernard,  in  his  artlessly  dis- 
tinct undertone.  "  I  saw  it  wouldn't,  from  the  first.  It 
creaks."  His  face  was  expressive  of  slight  agony,  as  at  an 
ill-oiled  machine. 

The  hostess  was  stirred.  "  Do  not  go  yet,  Andre,"  she 
said,  as  the  big  slow  man  made  a  movement.  "  Lucien,  I 
shall  not  have  another  cigarette  unless  you  do.  They  are 
really  admirable,  these  of  Jem's." 

The  name  produced  its  effect  at  once.  Even  Helga  seemed 
less  bored. 

"  How  that  fellow  has  changed,"  said  Otto.  "  I  never 
expected  to  find  him  so  grey." 

"Where  did  he  vanish  to  yesterday?"  Bernard  asked. 
"  I  noticed  him  standing  by  the  gosse,  having  dawned  from 
nowhere,  and  later  conducting  the  little  witch  Duchatel 
with  her  crutch,  and  looking  like  an  obelisk  beside  her.  He 
is  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  I'll  say  that." 


488  SUCCESSION  | 

"  He  went  back  to  his  affairs,"  said  Cecile.  "  I  was  thank- 
ful when  I  saw  him  with  the  boys.  Jem  is  a  calming  pres- 
ence." 

"  The  little  one  clung  to  him,"  said  Bernard.  "  Hid  be- 
hind him  almost.  The  elder  boy  told  me  he  was  off  again  in 
a  month's  time  to  America." 

"  I  had  not  heard  it,"  said  Madame,  rather  startled. 
"  Had  you,  Lucien  ?  I  should  regret  it,  indeed.  He  is  use- 
ful, Jem,  and  charming  too.    Did  you  talk  to  him,  Andre?  " 

Andre  shook  his  lion  head.  "  Two  words  merely.  Helga 
tried  her  English  upon  him,  did  you  not,  my  dear?" 

"  He  was  most  sympathetic,"  said  Helga,  with  emphasis. 
"  No  conceit  about  him — so  rare  in  the  English." 

"  What  did  you  talk  of  ?  "  said  Bernard,  on  satire  bent. 
But  Helga  was  too  much  for  him. 

"  My  impressions,"  she  replied — "  it  is  true,  they  were 
early  ones — of  Aunt  Henriette." 

There  was  a  thrill,  a  dangerous  one,  through  the  ranks 
of  the  brothers. 

"  On  what  subject,"  said  Madame  Lemaure,  calmly  rul- 
ing the  disturbance,  "did  M.  Edgell  reply?" 

"  I  can't  remember,"  said  Helga  frankly.  "  I  could  not 
follow  all  he  said;  but  he  pleased  me.  He  is  well  bred,  I 
should  say." 

"  Your  aunt  would  have  been  thankful  to  know  you 
agreed  with  her,"  said  Bernard,  looking  her  over  with  his 
disconcerting  eyes. 

"  He  struck  me  as  melancholy,  though,"  said  Helga. 
"  Will  he  re-marry,  aunt  ?  " 

"Why  should  he?"  said  Cecile. 

"  Why  should  he  not  ?  "  said  Helga,  with  an  admirable 
manner  of  audacity.  "  It  would  relieve  you  and  Uncle 
Lucien." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Why,  good  gracious,  of  the  boys." 

"  Many  thanks,  ma  petite,"  said  Lucien.  "  The  arrange- 
ment, as  a  fact,  comes  rather  late." 


THE    FAMILY  489 

"  Helga,"  observed  Andre,  "  to  relieve  your  uncle,  one  has 
but  to  avoid  shouting  the  roof  off.  Remember  also  that 
the  boy  is  under  it." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  He  is  Jem's  son.  Lucien,  would  it  be  impossible  to  find 
Antoine's  room,  and  have  a  word  with  him?  I  would  not 
ask  it,  but  that  we  leave  to-morrow  early." 

Andre's  quiet  acceptance  of  his  brother's  explanation  of 
Antoine's  absence  had  influenced  the  rest,  and  no  one  pres- 
ent, except  Helga  in  an  undertone,  had  asked  for  further 
excuse  for  his  retirement.  Excitability  was  a  quality  neces- 
sarily reckoned  for  in  the  youth  of  the  Lemaures,  and  in  a 
child  of  Henriette's  was  the  more  natural.  Even  the  un- 
married Bernard  expressed  no  surprise  that  the  boy  should 
be  guarded  closely  on  the  eve  of  a  performance,  especially 
such  as  this.  Their  father  at  his  best  had  never  combined 
with  a  greater  star  than  Ribiera,  and  it  sealed  Antoine's 
claim  to  the  general  regard. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  some  facts  about  that  Spanish  '  type'," 
he  said  aside  to  Otto,  as  Andre,  like  a  big  ship  in  motion, 
left  the  room.    "  I  never  got  a  chance  to  ask  the  child." 

"  Let's  all  go  and  see  him,"  exclaimed  Helga,  rising,  and 
overturning  a  screen  as  she  did  so;  for  she  had  not  Hen- 
riette's grace  of  movement. 

Whereupon,  seeing  her  husband  wince,  Madame  Lucien 
Lemaure  acted.  She  rose  also,  beating  back  her  skirts 
with  a  careless  gesture.  Cecile  was  lovely  in  black,  whereas 
the  dead  colour  did  not  suit  Helga. 

"  Antoine  is  very  nervous,"  she  said.  "  He  has  what  I 
may  call  real  nerves,  and  his  illness  did  not  improve  them. 
He  is  also  in  grief  as  deep  as  any  of  us,  who  are  more  old 
and  experienced,  can  exhibit,  with  the  exception,  perhaps, 
of  my  husband.  He  loved  his  grandfather,  and  he  is  mak- 
ing this  necessary  effort  out  of  a  feeling  as  loyal  to  his 
memory,  as  that  which  bids  us  be  silent — as  silent  as  pos- 
sible— beneath  this  roof.    I  ask  you,  Helga,  is  it  fair  to  dis- 


490  SUCCESSION 

turb  him?  It  is  not  his  own  family,  I  think,  who  should 
treat  him  as  a  show." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Otto,  "  you  are  right.     Girl,  sit  down." 

"  Admirably  said,"  added  Bernard,  much  impressed. 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Helga.  "  A  kid  of  fourteen.  It  does 
seem  a  bit  sentimental." 

But  opinion  was  against  her,  as  she  saw  by  looking  round. 
Bernard  was  muttering  to  Otto,  his  eyes  on  Cecile,  and 
Lucien  was  frowning,  a  hand  to  his  head.  Madame  herself, 
half  regretting  her  outburst,  and  momentarily  more  anxious 
about  her  husband,  felt  no  spirit  to  remake  the  party. 
Well-pleased  or  ill,  they  must  go,  and  grumble,  she  hoped, 
as  far  from  her  as  possible.  She  was  feeling  the  shadow 
of  defeat,  a  shadow  she  detested,  close  over  her,  when 
Andre  returned  to  the  room,  beaming  with  mild  triumph, 
and  brought  Antoine  with  him. 

"  Le  petit  had  not  gone  to  bed,"  he  said,  guiding  his 
charge  by  a  great  musical  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  He  was 
half  asleep,  curled  up  in  the  chair.  I  said  one  needed  him, 
and  he  came  of  his  own  accord.    Gentil,  hein? " 

Antoine,  blinking  slightly,  greeted  the  room  with  affa- 
bility. 

"  I  heard  you  talking  at  dinner,"  he  said  to  Helga  care- 
lessly.   "  Not  the  others,  but  you." 

"Eavesdropping,  eh?"  said  she. 

"  No.  The  door  was  shut,  but  I  heard  everything  you 
said.     It  is  curious  how  you  sometimes  can." 

"  You  were  supposed  to  be  asleep,"  said  Bernard. 

"  I  could  not  have  gone  to  sleep,"  said  Antoine,  pausing 
a  moment  by  his  chair,  "  I  mean,  not  till  after  dinner.  The 
smell  of  the  coffee  besides  was  very  good." 

"  You  drank  none,  I  hope,  monsieur,"  said  his  aunt.  He 
handed  on  his  bright  glance  to  her,  and  separated  two  fin- 
gers to  show  how  much  he  had  drunk. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  not  at  the  matter  of  the  coffee. 
He  was  evidently  at  his  most  brilliant  and  irrepressible — 
a  flame,  as  his  mother  had  been  on  an  occasion  that  called 


THEFAMILY  ,491 

out  her  efforts.  Cecile  should  of  course  have  been  anxious, 
she  even  told  herself  as  much;  but  she  only  felt  an  im- 
mense, an  absurd  relief.  There  was  never  any  disguising 
Antoine's  motives;  he  flung  himself  down  on  his  stool  at 
his  uncle's  feet,  with  the  air  of  one  entering  a  threatened 
position  for  purposes  of  defence;  and  he  tossed  his  care- 
less remarks  about  like  missiles,  things  designed  to  find  a 
mark  and  stir  retaliation,  with  a  sureness  of  judgment 
that  amazed  her,  though  he  seemed  to  take  the  first  ab- 
surdities that  came.  He  neglected  no  one,  his  restless  eyes 
perpetually  glancing  about,  though  he  held  them  all  with 
ease.  Cecile,  accustomed  herself  by  long  experience  to  the 
operation,  could  almost  see  him  feeling  quick-handed  for 
flaws  in  the  social  structure  he  was  offered,  supplying,  sup- 
plementing, re-making,  with  conscious  energy  and  uncon- 
scious inspiration.  Weary  as  she  was  herself  with  the 
effort  past,  she  left  it  gladly  in  his  hands,  and  lying  back 
in  her  low  chair,  watched  the  room. 

He  was  the  centre  from  the  moment  of  his  entrance;  so 
much  vras  clear,  and  indeed,  only  to  be  expected.  Andre 
was  awakened  completely.  Otto  amused,  Bernard's  keen 
glance  softened,  as  by  a  vague  reminiscence,  while  he 
jested.  Lucien  himself  was  stirred  to  stare  down  with  a 
kind  of  dull  amazement,  as  at  a  familiar  miracle  he  had 
not  hoped  to  see  again. 

"  We  are  smoky  here,"  he  said.  "  Coming  from  without 
thou  wilt  feel  it,  eh  ?  " 

His  voice  was  not  at  all  his  own ;  and  the  boy,  slightly 
frowning,  made  no  response,  nor  even  looked  round.  He 
fought  his  Uncle  Bernard  instead,  who  was  engaged  in 
deliberate  teasing,  on  the  subject  of  Antoine's  lady  friends 
in  London  and  Paris,  as  to  whom  Bernard,  it  appeared, 
had  amassed  the  most  various  and  disturbing  knowledge. 

"  It  is  only  one,  here,  who  gave  me  a  violin,"  said  Antoine. 
"  And  I  told  her  four  times  I  did  not  want  it.  The  others 
have  only  given  me  some  little  things,  not  generally  useful. 
In  England  they  are  more  sensible,"  he  appended. 


492  SUCCESSION 

The  remark  only  set  the  circle  of  uncles  off  again;  and 
Antoine  discovered,  to  his  resentful  surprise,  that  he  was 
regarded  as  partially  English  by  Bernard,  He  endeavoured 
to  make  clear  for  the  general  benefit  the  difference  between 
himself  and  Philip  in  this  matter,  struggling  so  fiercely  to 
prove  it,  that  he  brought  the  room  down  with  laughter  sev- 
eral times. 

"  The  English  find  me  curious,"  was  his  last  contention, 
in  a  shaken  tone,  looking  round  the  mocking  company. 

"  But  so  you  are — a  curiosity,"  said  Bernard. 

"Your  French  accent  is  good,"  said  Otto,  joining  in. 
"  Better  than  Helga's  there,  for  example." 

"  Oh,  she  speaks  very  well,"  said  the  boy  hastily. 
"  Listen,"  to  Bernard,  who  was  shaking  again,  "  I  believe 
it  is  what  people  make,  really,  that  matters,  not  what  they 
say.  There  are  French  things  and  English  things,  do  you 
see?" 

'     "  I  see.    I  am  in  accord,  my  nephew.    Make  something 
French,  and  I  will  leave  the  point  for  ever." 

"  Oh,  but  I  cannot  now,"  said  Antoine,  astonished  at 
such  unreason.  However,  he  looked  Bernard  over  thought- 
fully, for  light-minded  as  this  uncle  evidently  was,  he  had 
been  gratified  by  his  intelligence  on  certain  points.  "  Some 
time  I  should  like  to,  for  you,"  he  added,  lower. 

"  C'est  entendu,"  said  Bernard,  and  held  out  his  clever 
hand.  It  seemed  Antoine  was  understood  again.  Slip- 
ping his  own  fingers  into  it  an  instant,  he  shot  at  a  tangent 
to  safer  subjects. 

Meanwhile  Mile.  Helga,  who  had  said  nothing  for  long, 
began  to  bestir  herself.  So  far  she  had  merely  stared  at 
her  young  cousin  in  her  peculiarly  stolid  and  consuming 
fashion,  a  fashion  of  which  he  was  conscious  unpleasantly. 

"  You  are  very  excited,"  she  observed  suddenly,  as  he 
finished  a  long  and  rapid  speech. 

"  Oh  no,  I  am  not,"  said  Antoine. 

"  Yes,  you  are.    I  have  observed  it.    Are  you  nervous?" 

"  How  ?  "  he  said,  much  discomposed. 


THE   FAMILY  493 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  about  these  engagements.  Ribiera 
is  no  joke,  they  say.  Aren't  you  booked  to  play  with  him 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Only  one  sonata.  It  will  go  all  right."  Every 
inch  of  him  protesting,  he  swerved  to  Bernard  for  relief. 
This  alarming  young  lady's  eyes,  sharp  and  black,  seemed 
to  screw  into  his  middle,  and,  indeed,  produced  a  pain.  The 
pain  Antoine  had  felt  vaguely  before.  It  had  threatened 
lately  in  his  room,  as  he  lay  curled  in  the  chair,  sent  by  the 
devil  doubtless  to  disturb  his  thoughts,  which  had  just 
grown  quieter.  His  eyes,  turned  to  Bernard,  glowed  an  in- 
vitation. 

"  The  thing  will  go,  you  mean,  if  Ribiera  plays  correctly," 
said  that  useful  uncle.  "  He  frequently  knows  better  than 
the  German  masters,  however  he  may  treat  ours.    Did  you 

hear,  Antoine,  of  that  extraordinary  affair  at  Leipzig " 

Bernard  ran  into  anecdote,  speaking  man  to  man  in  a  fashion 
Antoine  approved. 

"  He  is  as  nervous  as  possible,"  announced  Helga,  unde- 
terred. "  He  is  biting  his  lip  at  this  moment,  father.  Of 
course  it  is  only  his  second  season.  When  he  has  been  out 
a  year  or  two " 

"  He  will  be  just  the  same  as  now,"  said  Andre.  "  Leave 
your  superiority,  Mademoiselle.  You  have  never  played  to 
a  full  royal  house,  under  Reuss's  direction,  as  he  was  doing 
this  autumn." 

"  Nor  ever  will,"  muttered  Bernard. 

"  The  things  are  all  right,  really,"  said  Antoine  in  a 
hurry  to  his  master  behind,  who  moved.  "  There  is  some 
to  do  to-morrow,  of  course " 

"If  you  '  ratais,'  "  said  the  irrepressible  Helga,  "  what 
would  Uncle  Lucien  do  to  you  ?  " 

Antoine's  social  resources  failed  utterly.  He  was  speech- 
less and  shrinking.  The  nightmare  was  then  true — this  per- 
son sent,  like  the  little  pain,  to  forewarn  of  calamity.  His 
dilated  eyes  fixed  her,  prepared  for  the  worst. 

Helga,  in  the  general  paralysis,  pursued  the  theme. 


494  SUCCESSION 

"  I  did  myself  once,  when  I  was  a  student.  My  word, 
I  shall  never  forget  it.  It  was  in  the  hall  of  the  school.  I 
fainted  quite  away,  imagine !  " 

Antoine  imagined.  "  I  should  not  like  to  do  that,"  he 
murmured. 

"  And  my  best  friend  had  hysterics,"  said  Helga.  "  She 
said  she  had  foreseen  it,  watched  it  coming — the  strain  was 
too  much,  poor  love.  For  me,  it  seemed  extinction.  Not 
for  long  did  I  recover,  and  then  it  was  a  marked  success 
resuscitated  me.  I  felt  resuscitated,"  said  Helga,  lest  any- 
one should  have  failed  to  hear.  "  I  was  very  impressionable 
in  those  days.  Indeed,  before  a  big  thing,  I  feel  a  certain 
emotion  still." 

"  Your  emotions  are  misplaced,  my  niece,"  said  Bernard, 
in  his  cutting  undertone.  "  Will  you  turn  your  attention  to 
your  father  a  minute?  He  seems  to  have  something  to 
say." 

"We  must  be  going,  Helga,"  said  Andre.  He  looked 
heavily  displeased.  Her  whole  behaviour,  according  to  the 
adjudged  standards,  was  out  of  place;  her  last  piece  of 
selfish  flightiness  unpardonable.  Andre's  small  grey  eyes, 
levelled  severely,  blamed  her  not  as  parent,  but  in  the  name 
of  the  Lemaures.  At  their  look,  the  girl  realised  her 
blunder,  and  bit  her  lip,  rather  horrified.  She  had  heard 
of  the  occurrence  in  London  naturally,  since  gossip  in  the 
family  soon  passed  round,  but  she  had  failed  to  recollect 
for  the  moment.  Details  about  others  than  herself  Helga 
frequently  failed  to  recollect,  just  when  it  was  most  neces- 
sary. 

"That's  a  heavy  programme,"  she  said  brightly,  break- 
ing across  her  younger  uncle's  dialogue  with  the  boy  as  to 
the  works  in  hand.  "  I  should  say  that  long  sonata  and 
one  trio  was  quite  sufficient." 

"Will  you  not  tell  Ribiera  so  before  you  leave?"  said 
Bernard;  and  the  boy  laughed  suddenly. 

"Look  at  him,"  cried  Helga,  pointing.  "That's  what 
Zep  meant,  I  suppose,  by  his  funny  line." 


THE    FAMILY  495 

There  was  a  general  outburst,  not  only  from  her  father 
this  time,  half  in  vigorous  protest,  half  in  mirth.  Antoine 
blushed,  but  took  their  personalities  with  forbearance,  since 
these  people  were,  after  all,  his  own.  He  had  already  had 
to  stand  much,  on  the  subject  of  the  caricature.  He  told 
the  young  lady  a  little  about  his  meeting  with  Zep,  since 
she  expressed  curiosity.  Antoine  had  not  liked  Zep ;  but  he 
was  careful  to  be  just,  since  that  person  had  made  him  so 
conspicuous ;  and  his  hesitating  little  sentences  about  the 
man  and  his  work  were  particularly  charming. 

Bernard's  eyes  met  Andre's,  several  times.  As  for  him- 
self and  Lemonski,  Antoine  advanced  with  caution,  but  he 
succeeded  in  getting  the  more  necessary  things  said. 

"  I  don't  think  my  eyes  are  little  lines  like  that,"  he  fin- 
ished these  careful  observations,  "  and  the  hair  of  both  of 
us  is  more  tidy  generally." 

"  Not  when  you  are  playing,  beloved,"  said  his  aunt's  soft 
voice  from  the  rear.  "  It  is  that  you  are  the  last  person 
to  judge,  as  I  informed  you.  Look  at  it  now,"  she  added 
to  the  world  sotto  voce,  for  he  had  driven  his  forelock  up- 
right with  an  impatient  sweep  of  hand.  "  Must  you  really 
go,  Andre?"  she  added,  as  the  big  man  approached  her. 
She  found  herself  listening  to  cordial  thanks,  and  realised 
that  the  strain  was  over,  and  the  people  satisfied  at  last. 

"  Come,  Helga,"  said  her  father,  as  the  girl  still  stood 
silent,  staring.  "  What  will  your  cousin  think  of  our  man- 
ners, after  this?  " 

"  He  is  quite  tired,  really."  Helga  announced  a  discov- 
ery. Then,  to  the  great  surprise  of  all,  she  went  forward 
to  kiss  the  boy  where  he  sat. 

"  Don't  get  up,  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  pleasantest  tone. 
"  I  can  manage  for  myself  without  you,  or  Aunt  Cecile 
either.  You're  all  sick  to  death  of  us;  and  why  you  have 
not  said  so,  hours  since,  I  cannot  think." 

But  Antoine,  after  the  embrace  especially,  conceived  there 
were  a  few  final  touches  to  add  before  this  little  work  he 
had  undertaken  could  be  complete.    He  went  with  them  to 


496  SUCCESSION 

the  exit,  slipping  out  in  their  wake  and  closing  the  door  be- 
hind the  train,  with  an  eagerness,  just  not  too  conspicuous, 
to  leave  Madame  and  her  husband  alone.  He  did  not  come 
back,  and  of  the  two,  Cecile  only  noted  it. 

"  That,"  said  Bernard  to  Otto  on  the  stairs,  "  was  really 
the  most  striking  illustration  of  education  by  example  that 
I  ever  saw.  Did  you  observe,  the  child  was  simply  shiver- 
ing?" 

"  Oh,  I  saw  it  well  enough,"  said  Otto.  "  And  who  won- 
ders? The  voice  alone  augmented  my  pulse,  before  we 
began  to  dine." 

"  Little  Cecile  was  shivering  also,"  said  Bernard,  "  with 
rage.  She  nearly  struck  the  girl  when  she  made  that 
'gaffe.'" 

"  I    suppose,"   said   Otto,    sympathetic   on   the  national 
point,  "  that  is  what  in  Cologne  they  call  a  woman." 
(     "  Ce  pauvre  Andre,"  murmured  Bernard;  and  they  de- 
parted from  the  family  gathering  in  amity. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WEBER 

The  task  of  escorting  Antoine  to  his  rehearsal  had  been 
assigned  to  Philip,  who  happened  to  be  disengaged  on  the 
afternoon  in  question.  Philip  having,  like  all  the  rest,  a 
vast  curiosity  about  Ribiera,  had  advanced  no  objection, 
and  was  the  more  ready  that  he  was  somewhat  conscious 
of  having  been  useless  to  the  community  the  night  before. 
He  had  boasted  a  little  to  his  comrades  the  Rats  of  this 
chance  of  viewing  the  much-talked-of  celebrity  in  private 
life,  and  he  was  quite  pleasant  even  when  his  uncle  worried 
him  before  parting  with  unnecessary  directions.  Lucien 
himself  had  an  important  consultation  at  his  lawyer's,  in 
reference  to  his  father's  considerable  bequests  for  charity; 
and  Savigny,  since  the  most  considerable  bequest  concerned 
his  institute,  was  to  join  them  at  some  hour  undetermined, 
and  go  thence,  either  with  Lucien,  or  alone,  to  the  archi- 
tect's dwelling  at  Meudon.  Madame  Lemaure,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  her  husband's  absence  in  Savigny's  safe  charge, 
had  gone  to  lunch  with  her  mother,  who  had  ever  been  her 
best  friend  and  counsellor,  and  to  whose  ear  she  had  mani- 
fold private  matters  to  confide.  It  was  an  admirable  ar- 
rangement, perfect  in  every  respect,  except  as  to  the  con- 
dition of  the  central  figure.  But  that,  by  a  singular  over- 
sight, they  all  ignored  until  too  late:  when,  with  equal 
unanimity,  they  all  said  they  had  expected  no  less,  from 
the  moment  of  the  boy's  return. 

Cecile  had  said  she  would  probably  be  back  before  the 
departure  of  the  pair.  About  the  time  she  was  expected,  a 

497 


498  SUCCESSION 

visitor  called  to  see  her,  and  since  she  was  refused  to  him, 
left  a  card,  Margot  had  to  hold  the  door  open  while  he 
wrote  a  line  of  excuse  and  condolence  on  the  card,  stand- 
ing without  upon  the  stairs.  He  was  a  slight,  well-built 
man,  tired-looking,  one  might  have  guessed  delicate,  with 
the  manner  of  business,  and  a  fine  brow  lined  with  care. 

"  Pardon,"  he  said  suddenly,  lifting  his  head  with  a 
quick  movement  of  attention.    "  What  is  that?  " 

A  slight  wailing  sound  had  reached  him,  piteous,  in- 
fantile almost. 

"  On  a  du  chagrin,"  said  Margot  vaguely,  putting  a  hand 
upon  the  door.  Surely,  in  a  house  of  mourning,  du  chagrin 
might  be  taken  for  granted.  The  visitor  did  not  think  so, 
however,  for  he  continued  to  listen  keenly  for  more  than  a 
minute,  though  the  sound  had  stopped.  Margot,  impatient 
for  him  to  go,  saw  the  pencil  suspended. 

"  The  boy — the  violinist — still  lives  with  you?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  regret  I  have  forgotten  his  name." 

"  The  Messieurs  Edgell  are  both  here,"  said  Margot. 
"  Tenez !  "  she  glanced  past  him,  as  Philip  strode  up  the 
stairs,  in  evident  haste  and  vexation  of  mind. 

"  It's  no  good,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  get  through  to  the 
fellow  at  this  address.  I  suppose  I  had  better  telegraph, 
or  try  Savigny.  There's  so  little  time."  Then  he  saw  the 
stranger  before  him,  and  was  simultaneously  aware  in  his 
rear  of  a  beautiful  dog,  a  deerhound  of  the  highest  breed, 
which,  eluding  the  watchful  concierge  below,  had  tracked 
him  like  a  shadow  in  his  hasty  ascent. 

"I  say,  is  this  yours?"  said  Philip.  "I'm  sorry."  His 
hand  was  on  the  dog,  mechanically  caressing. 

"  Clovis,"  said  the  visitor  sadly.  "  I  told  you  to  remain. 
I  am  astonished." 

The  dog  sunk  head  and  tail,  and  turning  like  a  ship  in 
narrow  seas,  prepared  to  descend  again  to  his  watch  below. 
He  crawled  a  little  way  and  stopped,  looking  round. 

"  I  disturbed  him  by  speaking,  I'm  afraid,"  Philip  men- 
tioned.   "  He  was  down  there,  lying  on  the  mat." 


WEBER  499 

"  I  think  I  saw  you  at  the  telephone  as  I  passed,"  said 
the  stranger.  "  Perhaps  I  might  have  saved  you  some 
trouble,  for  I  have  just  failed  to  find  M.  Savigny  at  his 
iiouse."  He  had  a  modest  maner,  retiring  almost.  Philip 
patronised  him. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  he  wasn't  there,  thanks.  He's  either  at  the 
lawyer's  or  the  architect's.  Lord  knows  which,  by  now.  I 
must  get  the  address,  inside."  With  the  last,  half  to  the 
woman,  he  was  striding  past  into  the  house  again  whea 
the  stranger  stopped  him. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  in  his  polite,  weary  tone,  "  but  if 
it  is  as  a  physician  you  seek  Monsieur  Savigny,  possibly  I 
could " 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Philip.  "  I  could  manage  alone,  if  that 
were  all.  Savigny's  something  more  than  a  doctor,  for- 
tunately."   Philip  had  reason  for  long  to  regret  those  words. 

"  But  I  am  aware  of  it,"  said  the  gentleman,  and  the  boy 
could  no  longer  neglect  the  card  he  insinuated.  Having 
glanced  at  it,  he  blushed  up  to  the  ears." 

"  Fm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  talking  about,  really.  I'm  rather  bothered. 
It's  M.  Weber,"  he  added  to  Margot. 

"  M.  Edgell  ?  "  the  other  queried  lightly.  "  I  supposed 
so — I  am  enchanted.  I  regret  that  I  could  not  attend  the 
funeral.  I  hoped  to  come,  but  was  prevented  at  the  last 
instant.  You  will  perhaps  be  so  amiable  as  to  make  my 
excuses  to  Madame  Lemaure." 

Philip  would  be  so  amiable.  He  had  put  his  foot  into  it 
terribly;  his  speech  to  the  celebrated  specialist  rang  in  his 
ears.    He  blushed  more  when  Weber  said : 

"  I  have  seen  you  at  a  lecture,  I  believe.  This  must  be  a 
terrible  loss.  Your  brother  has  supported  it  passably,  I 
trust." 

"  Perfectly,  up  to  now,"  said  Philip.  "  Do  you  know  my 
brother,  sir?  " 

"  Dr  Savigny  consulted  Monsieur,"  interposed  Margot, 
who  was  proud  of  her  memory  for  names.     "  He  saw  M. 


500  SUCCESSION 

Antoine,  I  think,  on  his  return  from  Germany,  for  I  re- 
member M.  Antoine  spoke  of  the  dog." 

"  To  be  sure :  Clovis  remembers  Monsieur  Antoine." 
Weber  glanced  at  his  dog,  which,  still  hesitating  on  the 
stairs,  returned  the  glance  with  passion.  ''If  your  brother 
is  at  home  we  should  be  pleased  to  see  him." 

"  He's  just  going  out,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Philip  rather 
sheepishly.  "  He  has  a  rehearsal  at  two  sharp  at  Passy.  I 
am  taking  him." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  visitor.  "  But  I  have  my  auto  there. 
Might  I  have  the  pleasure  of  conducting  you?  Even  with 
Clovis,  there  is  plenty  of  room." 

The  boy  was  visibly  embarrassed.  His  eyes  once  more 
sought  help  of  the  woman. 

"  Monsieur  could  persuade  M.  Antoine  to  go,  perhaps," 
she  suggested,  "  if  Monsieur  is  not  pressed.  It  is  impor- 
tant to  be  punctual,  and  the  carriage  gives  us  a  little  more 
time." 

"  It  does,  of  course,"  said  Philip.  Then,  as  the  visitor's 
inquiring  eyes  met  his,  he  blurted  out  their  difficulty.  "  An- 
toine's  taken  it  into  his  head  he  can't  play  one  of  the  things 
required,  and  he  refuses  to  go.  He's  taken  advantage  of  my 
imcle  being  out  to  be  as  obstinate  as  he  knows  how.  It's 
serious  rather,  and  I  have  been  arguing  with  him  for  an 
hour;  but  he  simply  won't  hear  reason.  He  just  sits  on  the 
floor  and  cries  for  grandpapa  like  a  baby,  and  says  he  can't 
bear  it." 

"What  can  he  not  bear?"  said  Dr  Weber.  He  had 
followed  the  boy  a  few  steps  inside,  and  was  clearly  listen- 
ing again. 

"  Being  without  him,  I  suppose.  I've  told  him  it's  as 
bad  for  everyone,  and  we  must  all  get  used  to  it.  He's 
taken  it  so  quietly  till  now,"  said  Philip,  aggrieved.  "  He 
was  the  best  of  everyone  last  week,  and  so  I  told  him." 
He  felt  himself,  it  was  absurd  to  start  minding  at  this  stage 
of  affairs,  and  it  was  evidently  on  that  tone  that  he  had 
been  discoursing  to  Antoine.    Plis  conduct  was  untimely,  as 


WEBER  501 

well  as  unreasonable ;  above  all,  when  his  elder  broi^her  had 
undertaken  to  produce  him  smiling  with  his  violin  at  Ribi- 
era's  rooms  on  the  stroke  of  two.  With  the  importance  of 
this  assignation  the  household  was  singularly  possessed. 
The  hour  of  two  blazed  luridly  in  their  minds,  all  Ribiera's 
lustre  behind  it.  By  some  means  or  other,  Antoine  must 
be  there,  or  his  whole  career  was  endangered.  And  An- 
toine's  career  meant  so  much  to  all  the  family — except  him- 
I  self. 
I       "  An  hour,  you  say  ?  "  said  Dr  Weber. 

"  He  began  it  at  lunch-time,"  said  Philip.     "  Really  as 
i  soon  as  the  others  had  gone.     It  must  be  more  than  an 
j  hour  we've  been  standing  over  him — mustn't  it,  Margot? — 
I  and  he  hasn't  a  single  sensible  reason  to  offer.     I  tell  him 
it  will  be  all  right  when  he  gets  there — of  course  it  will.    He 
can  always  play  when  it  comes  to  the  point.     Really,  I 
couldn't  possibly  bother  you,   sir,"   he  added,   seeing  the 
strange  doctor  stand  with  an  absent,  rather  haughty  ex- 
pression.    "  You  must  have  any  amount  to  do.     It's  more 
temper  than  anything — nerves,  we  call  it.     We're  used  to 

that " 

"Will  you  kindly  be  quiet?"  said  M.  Weber,  in  a  tone 
that  froze  his  utterance.  In  the  silence  a  reiterated  sound, 
between  a  sob  and  a  cry,  reached  them  again.  "  That's  not 
grief — that's  pain,"  he  said  in  the  same  rapid,  restrained 
tone,  new  to  their  ears.  "  Don't  you  know  the  difference, 
sir,  and  you  a  student  of  medicine?  An  hour!  Good  heav- 
ens, the  poor  child.    Let  me  pass." 

He  thrust  past  both,  and  made  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  Unseen  by  the  two  he  left,  the  dog  Clovis  intruded 
a  pointed  nose  through  the  door,  with  a  glance  as  in  apology 
at  -\Iargot,  whose  hand  had  dropped  from  it.  He  entered 
with  the  same  air  of  courtesy,  stepping  daintily,  gazed  with 
an  intelligent  eye  along  the  passage  in  the  direction  his 
master  had  taken,  glanced  into  the  kitchen,  and  turning  with 
decision  towards  the  study,  no  doubt  as  the  most  pre- 
sentable room  in  sight,  he  lay  down  there  upon  the  hearth. 


502  SUCCESSION 

Philip,  cut  through  by  the  doctor's  tone,  which  had  been 
startHng  from  such  a  mild-looking  person,  had  turned 
white.  He  looked  at  Margot  in  a  kind  of  horror,  and  rested 
a  hand  on  the  table  near  him. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  with  an  effort.  "  Don't  cry,  Margot 
— there's  no  time.  He's  one  of  the  biggest  doctors  in  Paris, 
so  he'll  know.    Where's  Yvonne?  " 

"  La  petite  went  out,  when  Monsieur  Philippe  would 
not  listen  to  her,"  sobbed  Margot.  "  I  believe  to  seek  .Mon- 
sieur Lucien,  but  she  did  not  say."  Philip  and  the  girl 
had  been  in  conflict  over  the  matter  of  the  boy's  ill-be- 
haviour, as  he  conceived  it.  Now  he  could  not  deny  a 
need  for  her,  as  he  saw  old  Margot,  helpless  with  the  shock, 
wringing  her  shaking  hands.  As  for  Philip,  his  head  was 
turning.  He  went  to  the  study  and  sat  there,  his  head  in 
his  hands,  railing  at  his  weakness,  but  unable  to  master  it 
instantly.  He  had  seldom  acted  in  better  faith,  or  more 
in  accordance  with  Savigny's  stringent  precepts,  than  in 
that  scolding  he  had  given  Antoine.  He  had  quite  enjoyed 
himself  at  first,'  and  filled  Margot  with  admiration  at  his 
eloquence.  But  now — how  could  he  have  been  such  an 
absurd,  such  a  heartless  fool?  Conviction  had  come  in  a 
rush,  it  was  as  clear  as  day  to  him  in  the  flashlight  of  that 
man's  few  words.  The  boy's  attitude  in  front  of  the  chair 
in  his  room,  where  the  helper  once  had  sat — his  slim  strong 
hands  clenched  on  its  arms  as  he  crouched  before  it,  his 
body  bowed,  his  mechanical  reiterated  sentences,  the  little 
choked  half-animal  cry,  which  had  driven  his  brother  almost 
wild  with  pure  irritation — all  the  evidence  under  his  eyes, 
all  that  time.  How  had  he  answered  all  this?  He  had  no 
idea,  except  that  he  had  thought  it  fine,  and  that  it  had  been 
futile,  cruel  stuff,  every  word — had  Weber  not  said  so  to  his 
face?    It  was  unbearable. 

Weber  had  resumed  his  gentle  tone  when  he  came  back 
to  the  study. 

"  Your  brother  is  in  violent   pain   evidently,"   he   said. 


I  WEBER  503 

"  Impossible  to  locate,  since  he  remains  obstinately  curled 
up.  But  he  remembers  me,  and  I  think  he  will  let  me  handle 
him.     Has  he  had  any  such  crisis  before?" 

"  No,"  said  Philip.  "  They  are  always  different.  .  .  . 
Grandpapa  had  opiates,  sir,"  he  added,  with  a  new  effort, 
as  the  doctor  turned  to  the  table,  and  mentioned  a  few 
names.    Weber  shook  them  oft"  with  a  gesture. 

"  I  am  not  satisfied  with  the  heart,"  he  said  drily.  "  I 
was  not  before,  only — Savigny  had  better  see.  Where  did 
you  say  he  was?  " 

"  Lord  knows.     At  Meudon  by  this  time." 
"  Psst !     Well,  M.  Edgell,  I  am  sending  my  man  home. 
He  could  take  any  message  more  or  less  on  the  road.    Can 
I  use  these  writing  things  ?  " 

Philip  put  the  materials  before  him,  supplying  informa- 
1  tion  as  he  did  so. 

I  "  The  girl's  gone  to  find  my  uncle,"  he  said.  "  My  aunt 
\  should  be  in  soon.  I  must  go  in  person  to  this  Ribiera,  if 
)|  you  don't  mind.  My  uncle  trusted  it  to  me.  It's  an  im- 
:|  portant  rehearsal  and  not  much  time  to  spare." 
;  "  When's  the  concert?"  said  Weber,  teasing  his  little 
;|  moustache. 

,j  "The  sixth — advertised.  I  suppose  that  will  be  all 
right?"  Philip  began  to  be  hopeless  of  stability  in  the 
world,  this  new  man  was  so  calm.  Weber  simply  added  a 
word  to  a  line  he  had  written,  and  extended  it. 

"  Give  that  to  Monsieur  Ribiera,"  he  said,  "  if  he  will 
!not  take  a  simple  excuse.  It  may  prevent  misapprehen- 
Isions.  Telephone  this  to  the  clinique,  if  you  will  be  so 
ikind,  to  await  your  doctor.  It's  lucky  I  knew  him  before; 
'but  I  am  on  delicate  ground  in  this  house.  You  take 
ithe  motor,  of  course,  it  goes  that  way."  He  lifted  his  eyes 
to  the  boy's  face  and  added  brusquely :  "  Are  you  equal  to 
this,  M.  Edgell?  ]\Iy  man  has  plenty  of  sense,  and  I  could 
use  you  here.  Indeed,  any  one  the  patient  knows  would  be 
a  gain." 


504  SUCCESSION 

Philip  swept  the  notes  together,  saying:  "  Shall  I  take 
the  dog?" 

"  No,"  said  Weber,  with  the  same  air  of  business. 
"  Clovis  waits  for  me."  As  Philip  turned,  he  added :  "  The 
woman's  the  only  servant,  eh  ?    You  mentioned  a  girl  ?  " 

"  You  can  trust  Yvonne,  when  she  comes,"  said  Philip. 
"  She's  my  foster-sister,  and  has  known  him  all  his  life." 

Weber  nodded  satisfaction.  As  he  left  the  house,  Philip 
heard  him  in  the  kitchen,  snapping  off  directions  to  Mar- 
got.  It  seemed  that  another  being  must  have  written  the 
message  to  Savigny,  which  was  in  polite  and  ornate  excuse 
for  M.  Weber's  intrusion  on  the  premises.  It  became  clear 
he  and  Savigny  were  at  formal  enmity,  whether  on  the 
subject  of  Antoine  or  otherwise  Philip  had  no  time  to  debate. 

He  had  no  time  to  be  shy  either,  strange  as  were  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  arrival  at  the  Spaniard's  handsome  flat. 
Weber's  automobile  spun  him  there  so  quickly  that,  what 
with  the  sharp  air  and  the  recent  shock,  his  senses  re- 
mained in  a  whirl.  It  was  like  a  dream — one  of  those  fa- 
miliar dreams  where  one  takes  the  place  of  speaker  or  per- 
former on  short  notice,  with  a  conscious  inability  to  per- 
form or  speak.  What,  he  wondered  vaguely,  would  Manuel 
Ribiera  say  to  him?  What  kind  of  fury  would  he  have  to 
face?  As  he  went  his  eyes  were  fixed  half  consciously  on 
the  message  on  Weber's  card.  It  was  a  fine  spidery  scrawl, 
that  message,  and  it  said  that  M.  Antoine  Edgell  was  pre- 
vented by  serious  illness  from  attending.  Serious — that 
was  the  word  he  had  inserted  when  Philip  spoke  of  the  con- 
cert. The  brother  tried  to  read  it  as  "  sudden,"  but  was 
not  able.  Under  the  all-powerful  name  of  Weber,  An- 
toine was  written  as  seriously  ill.  Philip  spent  the  time 
till  he  reached  the  door  in  trying  to  grasp  it. 

Arrived  there,  he  nodded  dismissal  to  Weber's  driver, 
and  went  in.  Philip  had  always  heard,  from  the  omniscient 
Ostrowski  and  others,  that  Ribiera  lived  like  a  prince; 
but  he  was  almost  bewildered  by  the  costliness  of  sur- 
roundings which  the  man  had  provided  for  his  short  stay 


WEBER  505 

of  two  months.  A  servant  let  him  in  silently  on  hearing 
his  name,  conducted  him  through  two  or  three  soft-carpeted 
rooms,  and  opened  a  door.  He  passed  into  a  long  apartment 
with  a  marked  absence  of  furniture,  except  for  a  magnificent 
piano  at  the  farther  end.  Over  this  piano,  on  which  a 
quantity  of  manuscript  music  lay  scattered,  four  men  were 
quarrelling  in  loud,  excited  voices.  A  cloud  of  smoke  lay 
over  all. 

"  M.  Edgell,"  said  the  servant,  and  three  of  them  turned 
to  stare.    The  other  said : 

"  There's  the  little  firebrand ;  now  we  shall  catch  it  " — 
and  went  on  trilling  a  peculiar  series  of  broken  passages 
one-handed  on  the  instrument.  "  O  my  honour,  it's 
amusing,"  he  shouted,  as  though  in  retort  to  one  of  the 
men.  "  Duchatel  was  not  far  out.  I  am  amused.  I  remain 
amused.  It  entertains  me.  Look  here,  and  here  again. 
Listen."  He  resumed  the  broken  trill,  the  cigarette  in  his 
teeth,  and  swung  the  other  hand  behind  him.  "  Come  to 
my  side,"  he  said.  "  Thou  wilt  be  crying  by  now.  We  are 
maltreating  thee,  and  shall  continue.  It  is  exquisite  non- 
sense, all  of  it;   but  exquisite.     Come." 

Nobody  came  to  Ribiera.  M.  Edgell  the  elder  stood  stiff 
as  a  column  behind  him,  waiting  for  the  farce  to  finish.  At 
a  word  from  one  of  the  men,  Ribiera  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  dropped  the  hand  off  the  piano,  and  turned. 

"Who  is  this?"  he  said,  equally  stiff  on  the  instant. 
"  Whom  have  I  the  honour  unaware,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  My  brother  is  prevented  by  illness  from  joining  you," 
said  Philip,  in  a  very  nervous  voice.  "  I  am  charged  to  make 
his  excuses." 

The  four  men  stared,  their  cigarettes  suspended.  Me- 
chanically the  boy  took  note,  British  fashion,  of  the  im- 
mense physical  superiority  of  the  one  at  the  piano  to  the 
other  three.  Ribiera  was  a  splendid  person,  and  seemed 
admirably  self-controlled.  Philip  only  wished  the  dream 
sensations  would  pass,  and  leave  him  power  to  note  them 


5o6  SUCCESSION 

more  closely ;  for  it  must  be,  after  all,  an  unusual  occasion, 
if  he  could  believe  in  it. 

"  Pince,  sefior,"  said  somebody  in  the  dream, 

"Illness?"  said  Ribiera's  voice.  "Children  are  never 
ill.     Men  are  ill  at  times,  in  hospitals.    This  is  invention." 

"  I  wish  I  was  inventing,"  said  Philip.  "  The  doctor  says 
it  is  serious."  His  voice  broke.  It  had  not  struck  him  that 
merely  saying  the  thing  aloud  would  be  dreadful.  He  ex- 
tended the  card.  The  Spaniard  took  it,  looked  at  it,  and 
tossed  it  on  the  piano. 

"  An  illness,  messieurs,"  he  announced,  "  A  serious  ill- 
ness.   From  Weber.    Who  is  Weber  ?  " 

Nobody  could  inform  him — Philip  was  too  indignant: 
Someone  laughed  behind  the  smoke,  the  same  that  had  said 
pince. 

"  Ask  Monsieur  the  tall  brother,"  said  somebody  else. 
"  It  is  clear  he  comes  among  us  to  explain." 

"  Do  you  come  to  explain  ?  "  said  Ribiera,  as  Philip  stood 
silent.  He  realised  he  was  a  butt  for  their  wit,  these  clever 
men  who  sat  in  another  world.  He  realised  that  it  must  be 
so ;  and  simultaneously,  he  had  little  doubt,  despite  their 
careless  chatter,  that  they  took  Antoine  seriously.  "  Do 
you  come  to  explain  ?  "  repeated  Ribiera,  softly  as  though 
to  a  child. 

"  No,  Monsieur,"  he  answered.  "  On  the  contrary,  if  you 
will  accept  my  excuses,  I  must  go  back  as  soon  as  possible. 
My  brother  is  suffering." 

"  He  is  suffering!  But — mon  cher  petit  grand  monsieur  " 
— the  Spaniard,  who  had  risen,  took  two  graceful  steps — 
"  he  must  not  suffer !  He  is  to  be  cured,  and  soon,  since  he 
has  promised  me  his  assistance.  He  plagued  me  with  tele- 
grams on  the  subject — I  have  three,  at  least  three  notes, 
from  his  hand.     Eh  bien !  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Philip,  biting  his  lip.  He  glanced 
from  one  face  to  another,  as  though  seeking  anywhere  a 
sign  of  feeling. 

"  We  need  him  to  interpret,"  said  Ribiera,  striking  the 


WEBER  509 

music  back-handed.  "  Need !  I  say  that.  Do  you  knus- 
my  name  ?  " 

"  I  can  guess  it,  sir,"  said  Philip.  Baited  as  he  felt  by 
them,  clinging  to  his  dignity,  his  face  white  still,  and  his 
voice  shaken  by  the  recent  shock,  his  appearance  touched 
all  the  little  group  of  artists  almost  to  tenderness.  Ribiera 
himself  was  smiling. 

"  You  know  what  he  is  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  can  guess 
him?  Admirable.  He  has  confided  to  you  in  the  watches 
of  the  night,  perhaps,  his  projects  of  reform.  Well,  he  must 
do  everything — anything — except  write  for  the  piano.  My 
hand  will  not  accept  his  little  passages  " — he  trilled  again 
carelessly — "  and  so  they  are  rejected.  Will  you  tell  him 
that,  from  me  ?  " 

Philip  gazed  at  him,  his  grey  eyes  wide,  taking  it  in. 

"  On  n'est  pas  musicien,"  murmured  a  smoking  man. 
"  One  hardly  understands.     We  fatigue  him,  sefior." 

"  He  is  fatigued,"  said  Ribiera  compassionately.  "  He 
may  go — and  we  also,  gentlemen,  hein  ?  " 

"Do  you  mean — he  has  written  that?"  said  Philip. 
Everybody  nodded  and  waved  their  hands. 

"  AH  this,"  said  Ribiera,  tapping  page  after  page  of  the 
scattered  sheets.  "  Let  him  come  to  me  here,  when  he  will, 
I  shall  be  working  at  it.  Soon,  I  shall  get  it  to  fit  my 
hand — a  glove."  He  stretched  his  brown  fingers  towards 
Philip,  adding  in  a  barely  lowered  tone  to  the  company: 
"  He  is  imbecile,  I  believe,  this  little  god.  .  .  .  To- 
morrow I  will  expect  him  at  this  hour,"  he  proceeded, 
"  when  the  serious  illness  has  passed.  I  myself  have  eaten 
imprudently.  I  am  not  offended — I  am  amused.  Tell  him 
that.  Send  him,"  he  finished  magnificently,  "  bring  him, 
if  he  suffers  still,  to  these  rooms.  We  shall  be  waiting 
here." 

"  It's  kind  of  you,"  Philip  managed  to  say.  "  But — he  is 
really  ill." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no,"  said  Ribiera.  "  Impossible."  And  his 
court  all  cordially  murmured :    "  Impossible."     As  Philip 


5o8  SUCCESSION 

retreated  and  the  dream  grew  dim,  he  saw  the  pianist  drop 
upon  the  seat  again,  and  heard  the  persistent  trill,  clean  and 
clear  in  his  exquisite  touch,  through  all  the  clamour  and 
laughter  that  broke  out. 

"  Que  Madame  sa  mere  a  du  etre  belle,"  came  in  Ribiera's 
musical  accent  through  a  pause ;  and  Philip  heard  that  also. 

He  saw  the  whole,  of  course,  when  he  had  leisure  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts  outside  in  the  clearer  air.  Ribiera,  him- 
self a  grand  poseur,  had  accepted,  almost  on  sight,  his 
brother's  claim  to  pose  as  well.  That  was  what  the  man 
had  meant  by  pince.  Antoine  was  big  enough,  in  these 
men's  eyes,  to  throw  out  an  important  rehearsal  for  a  freak, 
and  to  send  in  a  doctor's  card  merely  to  flout  them,  when 
they  were  all  assembled  for  a  serious  purpose.  This  was 
the  kind  of  thing  these  wonderful  people  took  calmly,  with 
a  jest  or  two,  and  a  fresh  cigarette.  Antoine's  neglect  of 
the  appointment  made  for  him,  instead  of  shaking  the  fabric 
of  his  career,  as  his  little  home  world  had  supposed,  scored 
one  to  him  in  the  appointer's  estimation.  Ribiera  would 
doubtless  study  and  retaliate  at  leisure,  as  in  a  game. 
Philip,  trained  in  business  habits,  above  all  as  regarded 
music,  by  his  uncle  and  his  uncle's  milieu,  saw  that  the  boy 
was  indeed  in  the  heaven  above  the  markets  now.  He  had 
been  lifted  there,  perhaps  by  that  brown  hand  Ribiera 
threw  behind  him  as  he  sat  at  the  piano,  a  teasing  hand, 
but  offered  him  as  an  equal.  The  hand  remained  empty, 
but  the  gesture  had  been  made.  Nothing  in  the  world  could 
have  brought  home  to  Philip  so  clearly  as  this  absurd  in- 
cident, the  distance  the  boy  had  covered  during  that  strange 
year. 

So  great  was  the  illusion  produced  by  this  kaleidoscopic 
reversal  of  the  serious  facts  in  his  brain,  that  he  had  to 
repeat  to  himself  on  the  way  home  that  Antoine's  illness 
was  not  a  fraud.  He  was  almost  ready  to  take  Ribiera's 
word  against  Weber's,  and  believe  Weber  wrong,  until  he 


WEBER 


509 


reached  the  house,  and  found  the  same  conditions  of  sus- 
pense that  he  had  left. 

"  Will  Monsieur  Philippe  come,"  said  Yvonne  quickly 
and  softly  as  he  entered,  "  as  soon  as  he  has  seen  Madame? 
He  must  see  her  a  moment  in  the  study."  And  she  disap- 
peared again  noiselessly  through  a  door. 

Madame  Lemaure  he  discovered  lying  on  the  couch  in 
the  study,  the  doctor's  deerhound  gracefully  disposed 
alongside  as  though  guarding  her.  They  made  a  charming 
group,  posed  as  though  for  painting;  but  the  effect  their 
inaction  made  was  not  of  helplessness,  more  of  a  kind  of 
protesting  patience ;  and  both  pairs  of  eyes  turned  towards 
\   Philip  expectantly  when  he  entered. 

!  "  Come  and  console  us,"  said  Cecile,  extending  a  hand. 
!  "  You  are  tired  ?  "  the  boy  said,  kneeling  down  by  her. 
I  "  No,  no — useless,  merely.  Equally  useless,  as  you  see. 
\  What  it  is  ever  to  have  submitted  oneself  to  a  doctor! 
I  Weber  is  a  perfect  martinet,  with  his  soft  voice.  Instead 
■j  of  answering  the  questions,  all  most  sensible,  I  had  pre- 
,]  pared  for  him,  he  asked  me  how  I  did  and  laid  me  here, 
'\  After  that  he  gave  me  a  picture-book  and  his  big  tou-tou 
{  to  play  with,  et  voila!  He  has  the  girl  with  him,  that  is 
'I  enough."  She  looked  at  Philip,  pitifully  rather,  yet  com- 
i[  ically  rueful. 

>       "I  hardly  know  if  it  is  serious,"  she  proceeded.     "  An- 
j  toine  interests  them  all  so  much  in  any  case — impossible  to 
1  tell.    I  have  had  no  history,  only  a  lecture.    I  am  passive." 
!       "  Is  Savigny  here  ?  "  said  Philip,  frowning  slightly.     He 
r|  had  to  follow  Weber's  lead,  and  spare  her,  since  he  did. 
'I       "  No.      Little    Bronne    came    up,    and    went    again    as 
promptly.     Yvonne  told  me  he  had  all  Savigny 's  work  to 
do  down  there,  and  could  not  stay.     Savigny  has  been  de- 
layed at  Meudon  evidently — he  left  Lucien  to  go  there. 
Bronne  has  sent  to  find  him,  failing  any  assistance  from 
I  your  uncle.     It  is  most  unfortunate,  for  Weber  naturally 
I  feels  he  is  trespassing,  having  quarrelled  with  Savigny  be- 
fore.    These  geniuses  are  the  touchiest  people — I   should 


5IO  SUCCESSION 

know;  and  yet  with  Weber's  manner  of  silk  one  can  see 
nothing.     We  must  feed  him,  I  suppose,  and  I  have  said 

nothing  to  Margot.     It  is  desesperant — so  soon "     She 

put  a  hand  to  her  head. 

"  Did  Yvonne  find  my  uncle  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  He  has  come  in,  yes.  Do  not  leave  me,  darling  " — as 
he  made  a  movement.  "  It  is  useless  to  ask  him  either,  for 
he  will  hear  nothing  till  Savigny  comes.  It  is  amazing  the 
faith  they  all  have  in  Savigny,  while  they  abuse  him.  You 
also?"  She  glanced  at  him,  exploring  his  face  with  her 
fond  eyes.  "  Cheri,  how  worried  you  look,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  It  was  hard,  hein,  with  the  little  one?  If  I  had 
only  known,  I  would  have  stayed  to  help  you." 

"  I  am  worried  rather,"  the  boy  admitted.  "  I  must  go 
to  my  uncle.    Where  is  he?  " 

"  In  that  room,  the  empty  one."  Philip  lifted  his  brows. 
"  Do  not  go  yet,  I  advise  you.  Weber  was  furious  to  find 
no  means  of  warming  the  child's  room — refused  Margot's 
suggestion  of  the  kitchen  with  contempt,  and  assumed  pos- 
session of  Lucien's  quarters  before  he  arrived.  He  ex- 
plained to  Lucien  in  studied  terms,  after  his  fashion,  which 
made  things  no  better.  Of  course,  my  husband  would  have 
offered  it." 

"  I  see,"  said  Philip,  and  looked  thoughtful. 

"  You  have  a  message?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  you  call  it  one.    Ribiera  said  a  few  things." 

"  To  be  sure — what  of  Ribiera?    That  is  his  anxiety." 

"  He  needn't  be  anxious.  Ribiera  expects  Antoine  to- 
morrow or  some  time,  when  we  like,  so  long  as  he  gets  him 
before  the  concert.  The  other  fellows  will  dance  attendance. 
He  doesn't  take  it  seriously— thinks  our  excuses  are  blague. 
He  told  me  to  say  he  was  amused." 

"  The  mountebank ! "  said  Cecile,  with  indignation. 
"Yes,  that  is  how  they  speak  of  him.  Well,  your  uncle 
will  have  to  write  and  make  it  clear.  Weber  will  never  let 
him  go  out  to-morrow,  after  this — hein,  Clovis?"  She 
dropped  her  eyes  to  the  dog,  which  moved  every  time  its 


WEBER  511 

master's  name  was  mentioned.  She  laid  her  little  ringed 
hand  on  his  rough  head.  "  Really,  I  must  have  a  dog,"  she 
murmured.  '*  Perhaps  that  is  what  Weber  meant.  It  is 
the  thing  I  need."  She  seemed  weary  and  vague  to  Philip, 
who  was  accustomed  to  her  keenness. 

"  Was  my  uncle  angry?"  he  ventured. 

"  Angry  ? — you  can  imagine  it.  He  made  it  clear  he 
thought  Weber  was  interfering  unnecessarily.  He  still 
trusts  Savigny  to  support  him — yet  one  cannot  treat  a  man 
like  Weber  so.  Fortunately  he  is  perfectly  bred — and 
doubtless  saw  the  case.  He  is  tired,  Lucien — hardly  him- 
self. He  went  to  his  father's  room,  and  would  not  have 
me  there.  I  suppose  he  suspects  I  hold  the  other  side — 
unwifely."  She  laughed  a  little.  "  Yours  is  a  distracting 
family,  cheri.     So  I  told  maman." 

"  I  am  glad  you  saw  her,"  said  Philip,  putting  his  arms 
round  her.  "  Look  here,  you  are  not  to  bother.  Weber 
meant  that,  and  so  do  I.  I'll  see  to  Margot  and  everything 
— and  I'll  tell  you  a  bit  of  news.  Then  you  can  hand  it  on 
to  my  uncle,  and  do  it  better." 

"  Tell,"  she  said  contentedly.  She  loved  to  be  managed 
by  Philip,  and  had  not  been,  for  long.  "  Not  bad  news, 
dearest? " 

"  My  distracting  family  wouldn't  think  so,  anyway.  Of 
course  it's  not  your  business,  but  you  like  meddling,  don't 
you?    Ribiera  has  a  thing  down  there  he  wrote." 

"What,  the  little  one?"     Her  face  changed. 

Philip  nodded.  "  They  were  waiting  there,  intending  to 
play  it  when  he  came.  A  biggish  thing — quintet,  I  suppose, 
since  there  were  four  of  them." 

"A  quintet?"  Her  eyes  on  him  were  brighter  still. 
"  But  that  I  know  about,  I  may  tell  you.  I  am  up  to  date 
in  Antoine's  compositions." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  whether  Antoine  plays  or  not,  they'll 
produce  it  all  the  same.  Ribiera  was  quite  excited,  and  he's 
an  autocrat  in  his  sets,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  True.     They  will  do  it,  and  Ribiera  will  make  it  cele- 


512  SUCCESSION 

brated.  .  .  .  Wait,  that  is  what  his  postscript  meant 
then,  the  scrap  our  little  oddity  tore  off  and  cherished.  He 
suspected  probably.  He  half  saw,  Antoine,  as  always ;  only 
it  makes  one  feverish  half  to  see.  Myself,  I  detest  it.  I 
saw  he  was  feverish  last  night.  Yes,  I  still  have  a  quarrel 
with  Ribiera." 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  Philip,  smiling.  "  You  can  touch  it  up 
by  yourself,  and  have  it  all  straight  by  dinner-time." 

"  I  must  have  somebody  to  think  to,  do  you  see  ?  It  as- 
sists. It  was  the  fox  Victor,  of  course,  who  passed  the 
manuscript  on.  Now,  that  will  annoy  Lucien,  with  reason. 
He  has  been  allowed  no  hand  in  it  at  all.    This  is  serious." 

"  Invent  something,"  suggested  Philip  impudently. 
"  Ribiera  mentioned  Duchatel." 

"  There !  But  Victor  should  have  more  tact  at  his  age. 
He  has  known  your  uncle  for  long." 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  Ribiera  would  sniff  at  the  thing ; 
but  he  won't,  I  can  answer  for  that.  You  see,  Bebe's  writ- 
ten it  a  bit  sticky  for  him  to  play,  and  it's  worrying  his 
dreams.    He  couldn't  leave  the  passage  alone." 

"  Good,"  said  Madame ;  "  I  trust  it  will.  Antoine  heard 
him  play  in  London — petit  ruse,  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
watching.    Here  is  the  result." 

"  It's  a  bit  of  luck,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Philip,  detaching  him- 
self gently. 

She  nodded.  "  The  sort  of  luck  those  possess.  I  wish — 
I  was  about  to  say  I  wished  your  grandfather  could  have 
known,  but  looking  backward  is  so  useless.  His  luck  failed 
there."  She  looked  up  at  Philip,  who  had  risen  suddenly. 
"Will  you  tell  the  baby — to-night?" 

"  Not  to-night,  I  think.     He  is  rather  wretched." 

"  Yvonne  said  he  had  not  fainted,  so  it  is  not  like  the 
last  attack.  There  is  no  immediate  anxiety.  Will  you  not 
stay  and  talk,  darling?  I  have  more  reflections — a  quan- 
tity." 

"  Tell  them  to  Clovis — his  eyes  are  very  sensible.  Isn't 
he  a  beauty?    Good  dog.    I  must  go." 


WEBER  513 

"  Why  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"  I  can  manage  Tony  when  he's  fractious."  He  spoke 
lightly,  of  intention,  but  her  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

"  That  is  it,"  she  said  gently.  "  You  are  patient  with 
me  all  this  time.  Well,  we  can  be  patient  too.  .  .  . 
That  boy  is  tormenting  himself,"  she  said  to  Clovis,  when 
they  were  alone.  "  He  turns  soft  like  that  when  he  is  in 
trouble.  He  has  some  private  reasons  probably,  and  he  is 
very  quick  to  foresee."  She  gripped  her  hands  again  till 
the  rings  hurt  her.  "  Heaven  grant  it  is  not  Marcel.  There 
was  an  afternoon  like  this — one  cannot  have  forgotten. 
That,  for  Lucien,  would  be  the  end.  And  I  have  nothing 
to  give  him  in  exchange.  Nothing.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must 
get  a  dog." 

Philip  was  useful.  Even  Yvonne,  who  was  more  useful 
still,  admitted  that ;  and  Weber  the  martinet  said  later  to 
Savigny  that,  had  both  the  boy  and  the  girl  been  hospital 
trained,  he  could  hardly  have  had  more  efficient  assistance. 
Indeed,  the  doctor  regretted  his  sharpness  to  Philip,  when 
he  saw  his  real  influence  with  the  patient — and,  by  way  of 
proving  the  regret,  used  him  mercilessly.  Weber's  own 
efforts  never  wearied,  during  the  long  hours  till  Savigny 
came,  though  he  had  all  he  could  do.  For  the  balance  had 
turned.  For  Antoine,  resignation,  patience,  "  politeness," 
were  no  more,  and  he  spared  none  of  his  surroundings  the 
knowledge  of  what  he  had  suffered,  and  was  suffering. 
More  than  once  Philip  privately  thought  his  mind  must  go, 
in  his  struggle  with  the  spasms  of  pain,  to  his  nature  in- 
tolerable. He  realised  during  those  hours  something  of 
what  the  walls  of  Savigny's  clinique  had  hidden  two  years 
since,  some  of  the  things  of  which  Savigny  had  never 
spoken.  Had  he  been  less  than  a  brother,  it  would  have 
been  instructive,  and  as  it  was,  he  learned  much,  while  he 
blindly  obeyed. 

Yvonne  was  the  person  who  watched  proceedings  most 
calmly,  and  who  remembered  best  what  she  saw.    Margot, 


514  SUCCESSION 

who  worked  in  the  house  now  merely  in  the  daytime,  was 
forced,  to  her  great  despair,  to  leave  before  Savigny's  ar- 
rival, though  it  was  in  one  of  the  interludes  of  the  patient's 
suiferings.  She  received  the  whole  account  from  la  petite 
the  ensuing  morning — adorned  by  such  reflections  as  oc- 
curred to  the  narrator  at  the  time  or  since — while  they 
scoured  the  pans.  As  Antoine  was  not  in  his  own  room, 
and  Philip  out,  they  could  converse  at  ease.  Yvonne  was 
as  brisk  as  ever,  and  as  spruce  in  appearance,  though  she 
had  been  up  all  night.  Since,  when  the  hands  are  occupied, 
immediate  things  come  first  to  the  mind,  she  began  by  treat- 
ing of  this  fact. 

"  M.  Savigny  told  me  to  leave  him  asleep,"  she  observed 
to  Margot.  "Jealous  of  my  deranging  his  work,  hein? — 
by  sitting  near  the  bed.  He  had  been  furious  with  me  be- 
fore that  for  remaining  while  they  discussed  over  the  poor 
little  one  with  their  long  words ;  but  I  remained.  Those 
two  are  more  to  me  than  a  pair  of  doctors  talking,  I 
imagine;  and  so  long  as  they  had  need  of  me,  you  would 
not  see  me  budge,  no!  When  M.  Antoine  was  asleep — at 
last,  thanks  to  heaven — M.  Savigny  declared  he  would  not 
wake  again,  and  I  could  make  myself  scarce.  Good.  I 
smiled — thus — which  contented  him.  But  when  he  had 
left,  talking  ever  to  M.  Weber,  who  was  silent,  I  returned 
to  M.  Antoine,  and  so  I  stayed  all  night." 

"  Bien  sur,"  cried  Margot,  with  sympathy.  "  To  leave 
him  lying,  all  pale  like  that — the  idea !  " 

"  You  saw  last  night  how  he  was  pale,"  agreed  Yvonne. 
"  And  his  poor  little  hand  wounded — bitten — when  we  un- 
clenched it." 

"  Psst !  "  said  Margot. 

"  M.  Savigny  would  have  forgotten  that  wound,  oh,  com- 
pletely. Such  as  that  is  nothing  to  a  great  doctor.  But 
M.  Weber  let  me  dress  it,  when  I  asked.  He  said  the  hand 
is  important  too,  and  laughed  at  me,  though  nicely,  for  the 
care  I  gave.    He  is  a  nice  gentleman,  that  one.    M.  Antoine 


WEBER  515 

was  asleep  by  then.  He  lies  like  one  dead  still,  as  though 
he  would  sleep  into  the  New  Year." 

"  M.  Savigny  was  right  about  it  then,"  said  Margot.  "  It 
is  marvellous." 

"  It  is  not  marvellous,"  said  Yvonne  calmly,  "  since  in 
any  case  he  would  have  slept.  Pain  is  exhausting,  above 
all  if  one  struggles  like  that." 

"  They  cannot  stand  pain,  these  of  ours,"  said  Margot. 
"  Monsieur  his  grandpapa  was  the  same.  They  are  not 
made  for  it." 

Yvonne  assented.  "  Nor,"  she  proceeded,  "  w^as  M.  Sa- 
vigny right  completely,  for,  note  well,  at  two  M.  Antoine 
awoke." 

"  Tiens !  "  said  Margot.  "  And  you  ?  " 

"  When  M.  Savigny  entered  lately,  I  told  him,"  said 
Yvonne  carelessly,  "  that  he  woke,  in  spite  of  his  words. 
For  w^hat  if  I  had  not  been  there?  He  might  have  cried 
for  help,  and  all  of  us  asleep.  M.  Savigny  demanded  what 
I  did ;  so  I  told  him  how  I  imitated  his  movements,  over 
the  temples,  and  down  the  body,  and  told  him  to  rest  again. 
What  followed?  The  little  one  remembered  M.  Savigny, 
since  I  was  there  to  assure  him.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and 
passed  back  into  his  sleep." 

"Did  M.  Savigny  confess  you  had  done  well?"  said 
Margot. 

"  He  ? "  cried  Yvonne.  "  He  looked  each  side  of  me 
with  his  eyes,  and  thought  the  invention  good — for  a 
woman." 

"  That  is  himself,  indeed,"  said  Margot,  appreciating  it. 
"It  is  only  men  who  do  well,  hey?  Say,  ma  petite,  how 
did  he  conduct  himself  when  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  all? " 

"  Last  night  ?  But  he  was  enormous — formidable !  I  do 
not  jest  about  such  things.  M.  Lucien  brought  him  in,  still 
seeking  to  explain ;  but  he  would  hear  nothing.  He  came 
in  raging,"  said  Yvonne.  "And  small  wonder,  to  be  so 
late." 


5i6  SUCCESSION 

"  Ah,  ah,"  said  Margot,  who  had  seen  Savigny  rage. 
"  With  Monsieur,  that  last  night,  it  was  the  same.  And 
long  since,  when  M.  Philippe  was  to  be  born  out  there — • 
cela  fait  penser  un  peu."     She  nodded,  lips  pursed. 

"  En  effet,"  said  Yvonne  modestly.  Having  beautiful 
manners,  she  paused  in  her  own  recital. 

"  That  you  could  not  be  expected  to  know,"  admitted 
Margot,  "  since  you  were  not  born  either."  She  recurred 
to  present  history  with  condescension.  "  M.  Savigny 
would  not  regard  M.  Lucien,  naturally.  Did  he  regard  the 
other  doctor  ?  " 

"  Not !  "       Yvonne     snapped     her     fingers.       "  He 

snatched  le  petit  from  M.  Philippe,  who  was  supporting 
him — ah,  but  he  was  bad  then!  I  could  bear  all  but  that 
little  cry.  And  just  when  we  had  believed  him  better — you 
remember  when  you  left? — it  all  came  back.  The  pain, 
nausea — everything  worse.  And  M.  Philippe  as  white  as 
he  was,  but  courageous !  And  strong — the  only  one  to  keep 
M.  Antoine  still,  for  M.  Weber  has  little  force.  .  .  . 
Seeing  M.  Savigny,  M.  Philippe  gave  a  kind  of  sob  of  re- 
lief, pauvre  petit,  from  where  he  knelt  by  his  brother  on 
the  floor.  And  M.  Weber — he  said  '  Enfin,'  and  extended 
his  hand  politely." 

"  He  is  little  good,  that  one,"  muttered  Margot.  "  Writ- 
ing on  his  little  cards,  and  a  great  dog  dirtying  the  vestibule 
half  the  night." 

"  Pardon,"  said  Yvonne,  and  she  spoke  with  emphasis. 
"  M.  Weber  is  a  clever  doctor,  and  kind  as  well.  But  see 
how  I  take  the  thing,  Madame."  When  Yvonne  said 
"  madame  "  she  was  very  serious.  "  M.  Weber  had  tried 
the  bath,  and  the  medicines,  and  the  applications,  and  all 
natural  things.  But  M.  Antoine's  was  a  mind-pain,  ac- 
cording to  him — at  least  a  great  part  of  it.  And  those, 
though  terrible,  the  doctors  cannot  touch.  Now  M.  Sa- 
vigny, he  goes  further.  He  is  a  doctor,  but  beyond.  He  is 
a  man  of  letters." 

"Ah,  ah,"  from  Margot,  impressed. 


I 


WEBER  517 


"  He  writes  several  books  which  lie  there  in  M.  PhiHppe's 
room,  and  which  I  look  at  when  I  dust.  They  are  about 
the  head — most  curious  pictures  of  it,  my  faith ! — and  about 
the  mind  within.  It  is  that  from  which  our  little  one  suf- 
fers— evidently,  since  he  is  so  clever.  He  thinks,  and  rep- 
resents his  pain  far  more  fearful  than  it  is." 

"  Mais — ecoutez,"  said  Margot,  on  the  defence  for  the 
patient.  "  He  wounds  his  hand  with  his  teeth.  A  woman 
does  that  when  her  child  is  born.    Thus " 

Yvonne  broke  in :  "  The  pain  is  worse  for  thinking  of 
it,  not  better.  It  is  real  pain,  anguish,  yes.  Could  I  doubt 
that,  who  had  watched  his  face,  and  the  change  M.  Sa- 
vigny's  coming  made  ?  " 

"  Continue,"  said  Margot  meekly. 

"'How  long  has  he  been  like  this?'  said  M.  Savigny, 
raging  round  on  them,  as  I  said.  They  had  to  tell  him  how 
long;  though  I  added  he  had  been  better,  for,  I  affirm  to 
you,  I  was  afraid.  And,  just  at  his  voice,  M.  Antoine 
turned  his  eyes  that  way,  not  moving  them.  Tenez,  you 
saw  that  fine  dog  of  M.  Weber's,  and  how  it  looked,  and 
stirred  a  little,  when  he  passed?  Well,  it  was  the  same. 
And  M.  Savigny  said:  'Yes,  my  love — immediately' — 
answering  it  in  a  tone,  a  manner  like  Monsieur's  self,  who 
rests  in  peace.  It  was  beautiful  to  see — it  was  holy."  The 
girl  stopped  to  cross  herself. 

Margot  said  nothing,  but  had  ceased  work,  arms  folded. 

"  His  movement  was  to  snatch  the  child  away ;  he  wanted 
none  of  us.  But  he  had  to  let  the  other  doctor  hold  M. 
Antoine  up,  for  he  needed  both  his  hands  in  that  work  of 
his.  He  bade  me  go,  in  his  ugliest  tone,  as  he  passed ;  and 
then  immediately,  for  his  eyes  were  everywhere,  he  said: 
■  Look  to  that  boy,  somebody.'  And  who  was  somebody, 
[  ask  you,  if  not  I  ? — since  M.  Weber  was  already  occupied. 
It  was  likely  I  should  go,  in  any  case,  even  if  M.  Philippe, 
who  is  my  foster-brother,  had  not  needed  me.  I  did  not 
allow  him  to  faint,  naturally ;  but  I  could  observe  the  rest, 
very  well,  over  his  head.    If  M.  Savigny  disliked  my  look- 


5i8  SUCCESSION 

ing,  tant  pis! — he  must  bear  it,  then;  though,  to  be  sure, 
he  pushed  his  long  body  in  the  way.  It  is  singular,  proud 
of  the  power  as  he  certainly  is,  to  be  so  jealous." 

"  How  was  it  ?  "  said  Margot  curiously. 

"  First,  he  gave  him  sleep,  with  both  hands  on  his  head, 
carelessly  almost ;  the  little  one  looking  at  him  always  with 
those  eyes,  like  an  animal  asking,  but  not  sure.  M.  An- 
toine  cannot  be  sure  with  M.  Savigny — I  imagine  few  can 
be.  He  is  a  man  who  is  unequal,  rough — what  do  you 
say?" 

"  He  was  often  unequal  with  that  child,"  said  Margot. 
"  He  was  cross  with  him  for  complaining  of  his  angine  at 
nine.  M.  Bronne  I  always  preferred,  but  he  rarely  came, 
for  Monsieur  was  entete  for  his  friend." 

"  He  was  not  rough  last  night,"  said  Yvonne.  "  The 
other  doctor  admired  him  greatly,  one  could  see.  '  Beauti- 
ful, Savigny,'  he  said,  when  the  child's  head  fell  back 
against  his  arm.  But  then,  it  was  not  finished.  It  is  while 
he  sleeps  lightly  so,  not  full  sleep,  but  the  lids  just  fallen, 
that  M.  Savigny  can  take  the  pain.  He  addressed  himself 
to  M.  Antoine,  plain  little  words,  repeated.  Meanwhile,  he 
passed  his  hands  everywhere,  body  and  limbs,  downward 
from  the  head,  always  strongly  down."  Yvonne,  dramatic 
by  nature,  dropped  her  duster  to  illustrate  to  the  admiring 
Margot.  "  It  is  simple,  this  method  to  persuade,  I  observed 
it  well.  The  pain  was  less — it  w^s  nothing — il  le  debarrassa 
de  tout  ga.  .  .  .  M.  Antoine's  face  grew  easier  always, 
his  look  more  natural,  more  young.  He  dropped  his  fore- 
head against  M.  Weber,  who  still  supported  him,  with  a 
little  sigh  of  contentment — ah,  it  did  one  good  to  hear! 
M.  Weber  was  touched,  amused,  interested.  He  said, 
'  There  is  a  good  child,'  half  laughing,  my  word  of  honour; 
and  patted  M.  Antoine  as  though  approving  him — are  they 
not  strange?  It  is  a  small  hand  he  has,  white  like  Madame's, 
with  a  gold  ring.  He  was  fond  of  the  little  one,  voyez- 
vous ;   because  their  knowledge  had  conquered  him." 

This  was  clearly  a  point  in  the  discourse,  and  Margot's 


I  WEBER  519 

sympathetic  commentary  was  ready.  But  Yvonne,  moved 
by  her  memoirs,  could  not  let  her  comment  long. 

"  Now,  Madame,  would  one  not  have  said  that  was 
enough,  to  have  him  sleeping  and  happy  after  those  dread- 
ful hours?  Far  from  that!  That  pain,  though  departed, 
troubled  their  minds.  It  was  not  a  right  pain ;  they  had  to 
know  about  it,  and  to  know,  they  had  to  talk.  M.  Weber 
had  laid  M.  Antoine  down,  as  he  was,  upon  M.  Lucien's 
bed ;  and  he  stood  to  one  side,  and  JM.  Savigny  to  the 
other,  eating  him  with  their  eyes — it  is  true  one  can  look 
through  him  now,  he  is  so  thin — and  quarrelling  about  it — 
instead  of  thanking  the  saints  for  their  mercy." 

Margot  had  to  interpose  here.  "  M.  Antoine  got  chilled 
on  the  journey  when  the  sea  was  bad,"  she  observed  suc- 
cinctly, "  and  sat  for  an  hour  in  wet  clothes."  That  should 
be  something  for  a  doctor  to  start  upon,  she  imagined. 

Yvonne  laughed  expressively.  "  M.  Philippe  made  that 
very  observation  to  them,  at  one  point,  and  M.  Savigny 
was  vexed  and  told  him  to  go  to  bed.  But  M.  Philippe 
preferred  to  attend  to  them,  so  naturally  I  waited  too; 
tliough  I  was  past  my  patience  with  their  behaviour,  the 
noise  they  made,  and  the  tricks  they  played  on  the  poor 
helpless  child." 

"How?     Not  to  wake  him  again!"  ejaculated  Margot. 

"  No ;  nothing  could  wake  him  completely,  it  was  singu- 
lar. For  the  examining  I  say  nothing — doctors  must  do 
that;  but  the  rest  was  to  flatter  M.  Savigny's  vanity,  no 
more.  It  seemed  M.  Weber  was  satisfied  M.  Antoine  could 
understand  the  other  doctor's  directions  after  sleeping;  but 
asked,  could  he  respond.  Imagine  the  folly  of  it  when  they 
had  him  once  quiet !    M.  Savigny  laughed " 

"  Laughed  ?  "  Margot  cried. 

"  Oh,  they  amused  themselves,"  said  Yvonne.  "  They 
are  about  equal  in  mind,  those  two;  and  both  having 
proved  themselves,  to  their  ideas,  had  leisure  to  trifle.  M. 
Savigny  took  the  little  one's  hand,  and  leaning  close,  asked : 
'Was  he   comfortable?'     M.   Antoine,   vexed   to  be   dis- 


520  SUCCESSION 

turbed,  frowned  and  turned  his  head  away.  But  when  the 
doctor  repeated  it,  and  insisted,  one  could  just  see  his  mouth 
shape  to  '  Yes.'  Not  content  with  that,  M.  Savigny  would 
have  the  pauvre  cheri  say  '  Thank  you,'  to  M.  Weber's 
question,  and  after  that  '  Good-night,' — being  himself  tired 
of  M.  Weber's  presence,  you  comprehend,  and  desiring  the 
field  to  himself  alone.  He  is  ruse,  that  tall  one!  Well, 
they  could  not  persuade  him  to  say  '  Good-night,'  it  was 
too  hard ;  though  they  tried,  laughing  low  in  their  fashion. 
But  the  little  '  Merci '  made  itself  seen  even  to  me  beyond, 
and  M.  Weber,  who  was  leaning  down,  may  have  heard. 
At  least,  that  one  said  '  Exquisite,'  and  embraced  le  petit 
as  though  he  had  said  it  consciously.  I  was  glad  to  see  that 
much  feeling  in  him.  Then  a  little  after,  as  though  re- 
minded it  was  late,  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  went.  And 
then  M.  Savigny,  in  the  midst  of  directing  me,  and  handling 
M.  Antoine,  remembered  a  '  mot '  he  had  forgotten,  and 
ran  after  M.  Weber,  to  contradict  him  upon  the  stairs.  I 
thought  he  would  surely  come  back ;  but  no,  it  seemed  he 
had  finished  with  the  child,  and  preferred  his  discussions 
without.  One  might  call  such  methods  untidy,  hey? — 
without  too  great  disrespect.  Enfin,  M.  Philippe  put  his 
brother  into  bed,  sleeping  all  the  time  profoundly.  And  see- 
ing his  cleverness  I  left  them,  and  went  to  the  study  to 
report  the  success,  and  relieve  Monsieur,  whom  M.  Sa- 
vigny had  offended  en  passant,  and  whose  agitation  was 
considerable.  Then,  since  Madame  had  already  retired,  I 
came  back  here,  knowing  M.  Philippe  would  have  the 
hunger  of  a  wolf  when  it  was  over.    And  I  was  right." 

Margot  remarked  that  owing  to  the  favour  of  heaven, 
M.  Philippe's  appetite  could  be  counted  upon ;  and  that 
anxiety  would  naturally  have  increased  it. 

"  He  was  anxious,"  the  girl  said  briefly.  "  He  remains 
so,  after  all  their  wise  talk.  I  had  already  observed  that  in 
him  very  well,  when  M.  Lucien  disturbed  us.  One  would 
have  thought  he  would  know  better  than  to  come  demand- 
ing, and  jerking  about,  just  when  I  had  got  M.  Philippe  to 


WEBER  521 

rest,  and  eat,  and  talk  to  me  a  little  in  the  kitchen,  like  old 
times,  innocently.  M.  Lucien  never  learns  how  M.  Philippe 
is,  and  how  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  speak  at  once  of 
what  has  moved  or  alarmed  him.     I  know  that;    Madame 

loving  him  knows  it  well ;    but  Monsieur  his  uncle " 

Yvonne  shrugged. 

"  M.  Lucien  was  anxious  also  ?  "  the  cook  suggested,  with 
a  glance. 

"  Doubtless,  in  his  fashion.  It  chanced  he  saw  M.  An- 
toine  at  his  worst,  when  he  entered  that  moment  with  the 
doctor.  It  shocked  him  certainly.  I  saw  his  hands  shake 
as  he  collected  his  things  from  the  table — for  he  feigned 
to  have  come  for  that — and  he  forgot  the  half  of  them. 
Then,  quite  late,  when  I  had  settled  myself  to  remain  with 
M.  Antoine,  and  had  arranged  all  the  room  to  my  taste,  he 
came  back  to  find  the  objects  he  had  forgotten.  So  he  said 
'  Psst ! '  to  discover  them  in  the  drawers,  and  I  had  to  ask 
his  pardon  naturally.  I  said,  since  M.  Antoine  would 
doubtless  remain  there  some  time,  I  had  thought  better. 
And  he  was  offended,  and  grumbled  something  about  an 
indigestion.  I  had  but  the  small  lamp,  so  I  trust  Monsieur 
did  not  see  my  smile.  It  would  so  naturally  take  two  great 
doctors,  for  five  hours,  to  conquer  an  indigestion  in  M, 
Antoine.  I  trusted  he  would  see  the  absurdity  on  reflect- 
ing, and  possibly  he  did.  At  least  he  stood  long  by  the 
little  one,  with  the  expression  of  one  contrarie,  biting  his 
moustache." 

"  M.  Antoine  is  useful  to  him,"  said  Margot  grimly. 
"  That  can  be  conceived." 

"  There  is  more  than  that  in  it,"  said  Yvonne  quietly, 
and  spoke  no  more  for  some  time.  She  and  Margot  had 
already  exchanged  some  thoughts  as  to  Antoine's  position 
wath  his  uncle;  and  found  themselves,  oddly  enough, 
ranged  on  the  same  side.  Margot  remarked,  to  fill  the  in- 
terval, that  she  did  not  envy  "that  one"  his  thoughts  all 
night  in  Monsieur's  room.  Yvonne  pursed  her  lips  and 
shrugged,   but  her  excellent   taste  arrested   further  com- 


522  SUCCESSION 

mentary.  It  was  Monsieur's  affair,  and,  besides,  her 
adored  Madame  was  troubled  about  him.  Yvonne,  it 
should  be  said,  was  a  young  person  set  firmly  against 
matrimony,  and  who  declared  herself  free  of  illusions  as 
to  the  married  state.  It  was  an  untoward  chance,  holding 
these  opinions,  that  fate  should  have  placed  her  in  two 
households  in  turn,  where  there  was  hardly  a  hole  to  be 
picked  in  the  domestic  concord.  Lucien  and  his  sister,  dif- 
ficult as  their  tempers  were,  had  been  not  only  matched, 
but  managed:  in  each  case  with  the  least  show  possible. 
Life  ran  with  few  hitches  in  both  houses,  and  even  cynics 
like  Yvonne  were  forced  to  admire.  She  had  marked  the 
strain  of  late  in  her  own,  but  had  been  very  quiet  about  it, 
though  needless  to  say  she  backed  "  Madame  "  blindly  in 
the  matter.  It  was  thoughts  of  Madame  which  launched 
her  on  dialogue  again,  after  an  industrious  interlude  of 
polishing  the  pans. 

"  M.  Savigny  was  not  beautiful  to  see,  I  promise  you," 
she  observed,  "  when  he  arrived  this  morning  early.  One 
would  say  he  had  slept  as  he  was,  his  hair  on  end,  his  eyes 
straying,  and  his  manner  to  all  he  met  most  peculiar.  I  was 
in  Madame's  room,  below  there,  with  her  coiffure  half 
completed;  but  she  sent  me  out  to  stop  him  when  he 
descended.  I  mentioned  to  her  the  condition  he  was  in, 
for  I  had  been  here  when  he  first  entered,  bouncing  in,  if 
you  please,  as  though  no  patient  had  been  on  the  premises. 
But  Madame  said  '  Go  '—and  so  I  went.  M.  Savigny  came 
to  her,  making  his  ugliest  grimace  to  be  delayed,  far  from 
amiable  in  his  manners,  appearing  to  see  nothing  in  the 
room.     Madame " 

"  Madame  would  arrange  him,"  said  Margot,  entertained. 

"  Madame,  rallying  him  lightly  at  the  beginning,  said 
that  she  felt  for  his  embarrassment.  M.  Savigny  replied 
that  she  should  be  ashamed  at  her  age  to  look  so  young. 
Then  Madame  said,  more  wickedly,  was  he  content  with 
Weber's  diagnosis ;  and  M.  Savigny,  feigning  to  misunder- 
stand, said,  '  Tiens,  was  that  the  breed  of  the  dog? '    Then 


WEBER  523 

she  demanded,  how  should  M.  Antoine  be  treated;  and  he 
said,  as  well  as  usual.  And  when  she  would  not  have  that 
answer,  he  said,  like  an  imbecile  if  we  had  no  objection, 
and  so  took  the  door  in  his  hand  to  depart.  But  she  would 
not  have  that  either — the  idea! — and  pressed  him  about 
the  food,  and  necessary  things.  And  M.  Savigny,  speak- 
ing over  his  shoulder,  said  the  boy  was  all  right,  and  since 
she  forced  him  to  say  it,  her  husband  was  in  more  need  of 
her  attention." 

"And  what  did  Madame  respond?"  said  Margot. 

"  Madame  said,  '  Raymond ! '  rather  low  ;  and  then,  with- 
out pausing,  she  thanked  him  steadily  and  beautifully  for 
all  he  had  done  for  the  boy,  so  that  he  must  listen,  though 
his  back  was  turned.  And  M.  Savigny  said,  '  Taisez-vous, 
Cecile,'  with  a  bitterness  most  remarkable,  and,  turning, 
bent  right  down  to  kiss  her  hand.  There  is  a  woman  he 
respects,"  finished  Yvonne.  "  And  he  went  away  after  it 
very  quietly." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE   FETfi 

Antoine  wished  his  doctor  a  happy  new  year  at  eight 
o'clock,  but  Savigny  did  not  return  the  courtesy.  He  had 
a  habit  of  chilling  such  innocent  formalities  by  omitting  his 
share  in  them ;  but  this  New  Year's  morning,  a  remarkably 
cold  one,  he  was  more  grim  than  usual.  None  of  Antoine's 
attempts  upon  him  appeared  happy,  and  yet  the  doctor 
seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do,  and  might  just  as  well  have 
assisted  him.  When  he  said  the  snow  was  beautiful,  Sa- 
vigny said  he  should  be  thankful  not  to  have  to  walk  in  it ; 
when  he  inquired  how  he  and  M.  Bronne  were  going  to 
spend  the  day,  Savigny  said,  "  As  usual." 

"  But  it  is  the  fete !  "  protested  Antoine. 

"  All  the  more  time  for  people  to  think  of  their  ailments," 
said  Savigny. 

"  I  mean,  you  will  not  have  any  to-day — patients." 

"  I've  got  one  here." 

This  was  really  depressing,  since  Antoine  had  adopted 
the  light  society  vein  entirely  to  disguise  the  fact  that  he 
was  laid  prostrate  in  a  bed. 

"  You  needn't  stay,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  I  think  you 
are  coming  this  evening  to  see  papa." 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  said  Savigny. 

"  My  aunt  said  so,"  said  Antoine,  mildly  positive. 

"  I'm  not  under  your  aunt's  directions.  Lie  still,  boy," 
he  added,  snapping. 

"  You  are  disagreeable,"  said  Antoine  softly.     "  I  think 
papa  will  come  to  see  you,  anyhow." 
524 


I  THE    FETE  525 

"  Your  father  can  write,"  said  Savigny,  presenting  An- 
toine  with  a  complete  back  view.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jem 
had  written,  and  he  was  digesting  the  letter.  The  proposal 
it  contained  was  timely  and  practical,  sound  beyond  crit- 
icism, and  clever  to  the  point  of  inspiration — and  Savigny 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  it.  That  was  the  simple  thing 
that  had  occurred,  if  only  the  patient  behind  could  have 
known  it. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  said  Antoine,  after  a  period  of  silence, 
throwing  a  hand  forth  as  he  turned. 

"  No,"  said  Savigny.  "  Keep  your  arms  still,  or  I'll  tie 
them."  This  sounded  so  savage  that  Antoine  collapsed, 
shrinking.  Savigny  went  to  one  of  his  uncle's  drawers, 
pulled  it  open  with  a  jerk,  and  then  swore,  shut  it,  and 
pulled  another. 

"  His  things  are  in  grandpapa's  room,"  said  Antoine, 
frowning  at  the  unnecessary  noise.     "  I  do  not  think  you 

will  find  anything "     He  stopped. 

;'{       The  doctor  had  found  something.     He  took  out  an  old 
i  violin-case,  which  he  laid  upon  the  bed. 
I       "  There  you  are,"  he  said.    "  Don't  make  a  fuss,  now,  or 
"*  I  shall  be  sorry  I  did  it.     How  the  devil  do  these  clasps 
go?" 

Antoine  did  it  for  him  one-handed,  for  the  right  hand  he 

;  had  wounded  was  still  bound.     He  seized  the  violin  from 

the  interior  with  a  little  chuckle  of  joy,  and  lifted  it  to  his 

:  chin.    As  he  extended  the  bandaged  hand  for  the  bow,  the 

doctor  deftly  jerked  it  away. 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  he  said.  "  That's  not  part  of  the  game. 
Be  content  with  what  you  have." 

The  boy  complied  tamely  in  the  ordinance.  It  would 
seem  he  was  content.  To  Savigny's  surprise,  also,  he  said 
absolutely  nothing.  He  caressed  the  violin  for  some 
minutes,  his  white  cheek  against  the  dark  wood,  his  thin 
clever  hand  lying  upon  the  strings.  The  other  hand  was 
simply  grasping  Savigny's  cufif,  as  though  to  hold  him  quiet. 
Savigny  was  quiet  enough,  sunk  in  the  chair  by  the  bed. 


526  SUCCESSION 

He  was  glad  of  a  pause,  for  he  felt  unequal  to  what  was 
coming — the  course  of  penance  he  had  laid  out.  If  only 
Charles  were  here,  he  thought  desperately,  to  help  him 
with  this  sensitive  child.  Rough  words  he  had  taught  him 
to  bear,  but  to  have  to  hurt  him  with  the  truth  was  mad- 
dening.   Yet  he  saw  no  way  of  escape  from  the  necessity. 

"  Has  it  been  in  that  drawer  all  the  time?  "  the  boy  asked 
at  last,  throwing  back  his  head. 

Savigny  nodded.  "  Lucien  had  intended  to  give  it  you 
to-day;  but  I  knew  now  he  would  not,  so  I  might  as  well 
take  it  on  myself." 

"Why  would  he  not?" 

"  Because  it  seems  like  mocking  you,  child.  Personally, 
I  am  accustomed  to  doing  cruel  things." 

"  It  is  not  cruel ;  I  like  it."  His  dark,  brilliant  eyes 
pierced  Savigny.  "  You  mean  I  shall  not  play  ? "  he 
queried.    "  This  concert  ?  " 

"  None  of  the  concerts." 

"  Not  at  all  this  winter?  " 

"  No.  Nor  this  year,  nor  possibly  next.  I  am  here  to- 
day, Antoine,  to  break  your  career.  To  counsel,  that  is, 
its  being  broken." 

A  pause — the  boy  exploring  his  violin  sidelong.  It  had 
suffered  nowhere — a  miracle.  "  Because  M.  Weber  said 
so  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No !  Because — what  you  like.  Because  I  value  your 
precious  life  more  than  my  consistency.  I  was  wrong!" 
barked  Savigny.    "  There !  " 

The  patient  took  it  calmly.  "  That  day,"  he  began,  "  you 
came  up  to  the  mansarde  and  listened " 

"  Yes.  I  knew  I  was  wrong  then.  I  hadn't  the  courage 
to  confess  it.  It  needed  the  shock  when  Bronne's  mes- 
senger found  me  at  Meudon,  to  finish  it.  Weber,  curse 
him,  rode  over  the  remains  of  me."  The  boy  was  silent. 
"  You  liked  him,  didn't  you  now  ?  " 

"  Weber  ? — yes."    He  frowned  painfully ;  and  the  doctor 


THE    FETE  527 

let  him  have  a  pause.  "  You  have  not  told  my  uncle?  "  he 
proceeded. 

"  No,"  said  Savigny  crossly.  "  Owing  to  my  education, 
you  are  so  far  and  away  the  most  reasonable  of  the  fam- 
ily  " 

"  Bon,"  said  Antoine,  and  sighed.  He  gathered  from  the 
compliment  that  he  was  to  do  the  explaining.  There  was 
a  penalty  to  Savigny's  approval,  always.  "  He  must  know, 
because  of  Ribiera,"  he  murmured. 

"  So  I  supposed.  Well,  leave  that  for  the  present. 
Lucien  hardly  matters,  really.    Have  I  hurt  you,  tell  me." 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  after  the  pause.  "  It  is  kind,  how 
you  do  things." 

"  Great  heaven ! — I  can't  have  you  satirical,  Antoine. 
Had  you  foreseen  it?" 

"  I  had  not  thought  I  could  play  this  one.  I  had  not  be- 
gun to  think  about  the  rest.    I  must,  now." 

"  Very  good.    Am  I  to  go  ?  " 

"No;  wait  a  little,  please."  There  was  another  long 
pause.  Savigny  marvelled  at  his  dignity,  admiring  it,  while 
it  crushed  him. 

"  Magnificent  acting,"  he  thought.  "  He  cannot  keep  it 
up." 

"  I  do  not  see  why  now,"  said  the  boy,  at  last,  "  more  than 
at  Miinchen." 

"  Good.    I  have  been  waiting  for  this.    Go  on." 

"  I  mean — I  was  more  nearly  dead  then,  I  believe." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Savigny,  folding  his  arms.  "  Don't  be 
more  ridiculous  than  you  can  help.    I  expect  to  be  abused." 

"I  am  reasonable,"  said  Antoine, , lifting  an  eyebrow. 
"  I  only  do  not  understand." 

Savigny  did  not  help  him,  and  he  had  to  think  it  out. 
As  he  thought,  the  strong  fingers  of  the  wounded  hand 
worked  on  Savigny's  arm,  and  he  captured  them  quietly. 

"  I  should  have  been  happier  to  stop  then,"  said  the  boy. 

"Why?" 


528  SUCCESSION 

"  I  did  not  know  they  all — wanted  it  so  much.  Grand- 
papa too." 

"  Your  grandfather  would  be  on  my  side  now  if  he  were 
here.  That  is  not  worth  considering."  The  boy  was  silent ; 
his  dignity  wrapped  him  like  a  cloak.  The  doctor  was  quite 
incapable  of  following  his  thoughts.  This  feeling  of  help- 
lessness, Savigny  supposed,  was  his  penance.  "  Do  you 
not  want  it  yourself?"  he  asked,  at  last.  "Do  you  not 
enjoy  playing?" 

"  It — it  is  for  them  to  enjoy,  I  think." 

"  That  is  begging  the  question.    Answer  me." 

"I  cannot.  You  do  not  understand.  You  have  never 
wished  to." 

Savigny  nodded.     "  That  I  distinctly  deserve.     Go  on." 

"  Of  course  there  are — things  I  like." 

"  The  applause,"  said  Savigny. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  agreed,  the  comic  eyebrow  slightly 
lifting  again.  "  I  like  to  show  them ;  and  with  this  it  is 
easy."  He  gripped  the  violin.  "  If  it  was  grandpapa  sit- 
ting there,"  he  broke  out,  "  I  could  show  him  some  things 
now  and  he  would  see." 

"  You  don't  play,"  snapped  Savigny,  in  warning. 

"  No ;  I  think  I  don't,  when  you  hold  my  right  hand. 
One  hand,"  murmured  Antoine,  "  is  not  enough  to  play  the 
violin,  except  for  us."  He  addressed  the  instrument,  clasp- 
ing it  to  his  neck.  With  the  single  hand  left  him  he  shaped 
a  series  of  chords,  and  ran  up  a  splendid  flight  to  the  top 
of  the  strings.  "  You  are  not  in  tune,"  he  murmured,  as 
one  finger  clung  and  caught  a  string  sufficiently  to  sound  the 
note.  "  A  little  higher  that  should  be — there."  Holding 
with  his  chin,  he  fixed  the  peg  with  a  lightning  movement. 
The  hand  in  Savigny's  lay  quite  slack,  and  was  clearly  not 
required,  as  he  said. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  sensible  that  he  ought 
to  stop  it,  but  interested  in  spite  of  himself  in  the  delicate 
soundless  manoeuvres  he  watched  sidelong. 

*'  That  is  the  Romance,  his  and  mine.     I  could  never 


THE    FETE  529 

'  rater '  that  one,  never.  It  is  very  well.  .  .  .  And 
this — that  is  the  end  of  Duchatel's  first  movement — very 
difficult.  You  do  not  like  him? — good.  .  .  .  And  this 
— what  is  this?  You  do  not  know,  or  anybody.  That  is 
ours — between  us — you  understand?" 

"  No,"  Savigny  growled. 

"  No.     This  is  a  doctor,"  the  boy  informed  the  violin, 

"  very  distinguished,  but Now  look  at  this."    He  bit  his 

lip,  attending  again  to  the  intricate  changes  of  his  finger- 
tips. "  That  is  Aloricz — much  cleverer  than  anybody, 
though  he  had  a  curious  mind.  You  say  I  shall  not  play 
the  violin,  monsieur,  but  Moricz  said  that  before.  We 
heard  him ;  it  is  not  new  to  us."  He  covered  the  violin 
.with  his  long  hand,  numbing  the  higher  strings  he  had  set 
vibrating.  He  looked  sidelong  under  his  lashes  at  Savigny, 
^who  remained  motionless,  his  head  on  his  hand.  "  Not 
yet  ?  "  he  queried,  mocking.  "  It  is  rather  long  to  show 
him.  Very  well."  He  set  the  instrument  before  him, 
holding  it  reversed.  "  This  is  my  violin,"  he  explained, 
"  and  I  love  it.  They  all  know  that.  I  love  all  the  touch  of 
it,  the  strings,  the  neck — just  as  grandpapa  has  often  told 
me  of  his.  He  has  not  forgotten — I  shall  not  forget.  Not 
when  I  am  old,  not  when  I  am  dead.  Now,  that  is  the 
first  thing.  Do  you  understand  it  well — you  who  have  no 
music? " 

"  Gently,"  said  Savigny,  keeping  an  anxious  finger  on  his 
wrist.    "  I  understand  quite  well  enough." 

"You  do?    Well,  take  it  then." 

"  You  are  tired,  my  dear?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  finished,  with  that.  Je  peux  m'en  passer.  1 
have  played  enough."  Thrusting  it  aside,  he  laid  the  same 
hand  across  his  eyes. 

"  You  had  better  rest  now,"  said  Savigny ;  and  Antoine 
acquiesced,  bending  his  head. 

"  I  had  better  write."  It  still  took  a  minute  to  penetrate 
the  doctor,  who  was  putting  the  violin  away.     Then  he 


530  SUCCESSION 

stopped  and  turned  sharply.  The  boy  flashed  a  smile 
straight  at  him,  through  his  fingers. 

"  Who  said  anything  about  writing,  hey  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  I  did.  You  were  clever  to  hear.  That  was  what  we 
meant — and  Moricz.  All  of  us.  .  ,  ,  You  see,  I  can 
do  it  very  well.  There  is  a  little'  quintet  Ribiera  has 
taken " 

''  Boy !  You  are  to  be  silent."  Antoine  was  dumb,  his 
hand  across  his  mouth. 

'"Why  can't  you  say  the  one  thing  necessary  first,  and 
save  acting,  which  exhausts  you?  " 

"  Grandpapa "  began  Antoine. 

"  You  were  using  me  like  him,  weren't  you?  Explaining 
to  him — excusing  yourself.     Don't  cry." 

"  I  am  not  crying.  You  are  rather  like  him,  s-some- 
times." 

"  Well,"  said  Savigny,  "  I  am  not  he — nobody  can  be,  I 
least  of  all,  I  am  myself,  what  you  call  in  your  charity  a 
distinguished  doctor.  And  you  are  not  to  think  of  writing, 
or  any  kind  of  work,  for  months.    You  are  ill." 

"  Yes.  I  was  at  Miinchen.  Did  you  understand  already 
there?" 

"  I  understood  essentially.     I  never  worked  it  out.     If 

you  will  be  so  hopelessly  obscure — and  shifty "     He 

failed  to  finish,  annoyed  at  his  own  emotion. 

"Did  you  get  that  violin  from  Jacques?"  said  Antoine. 

"  There  you  are!  Shifty  reminded  you,  didn't  it?  Now, 
you  are  not  to  start  a  whole  new  conversation.  You  have 
had  more  than  enough  as  it  is.  You  are  my  property,  do 
you  understand?    Bound  to  me." 

"  Yes."  Antoine  consitiered  him.  "  Did  Jacques  steal  it 
from  her?  " 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  Savigny  sourly,  arranging  his  coverings 
with  careful  hands. 

"  I  expect  he  did,"  Antoine  murmured.  "  He  would  be 
clever  to  steal.     M.   Raymond  " — just  as  the  doctor  had 


THE    FETE  531 

reached  the  door.  "  No,  it  does  not  matter,"  said  Antoine, 
subsiding. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  Only — will  you  take  a  message  for  me  to  M.  Bronne?  " 

"  No,  I  won't.    What  message  ?  " 

"  I  only  want  him  to  say  thank  you  to  Jacques  for  steal- 
ing it.    He  knows  where  he  is." 

"  You  have  no  business  to  have  secrets  with  Bronne,  or 
to  send  him  messages.  He's  in  my  employ.  That's  not  a 
joke  " — as  Antoine  giggled  slightly.  "  Do  you  really  want 
to  see  Bronne?  "  A  nod.  "  Well,  I'll  see  if  I  can  manage 
it,  one  of  these  days.  Meanwhile,  you  are  to  see  nobody 
else,  unless  relations.    You  understand?    I  forbid  it." 

"  Forbid,"  echoed  Antoine  agreeably,  if  absently  a  trifle. 

Savigny  vanished, 

A  long  morning  was  before  Antoine,  with  nothing  to  do 
in  it.  It  was  true  he  had  much  to  think  of,  but  he  was  a 
little  tired  of  thinking.  He  looked  out  at  the  snow,  which 
he  saw  against  the  tree-tops  behind  the  balcony,  for  Lu- 
cien's  room,  unlike  his  garret,  gave  upon  the  front.  The 
snow  was  coming  all  ways  at  once  in  a  fascinating  manner, 
and  suggested  to  Antoine's  mind  an  idea  for  an  orchestral 
scherzo,  equally  fascinating — ravishing  indeed.  After  a 
happy  interval,  he  remembered  he  was  not  to  think  of  music, 
abandoned  the  details  of  the  scherzo,  and  studied  the  room. 
Being  his  uncle's,  it  was  orderly,  and  not  interesting.  Let- 
ters, neatly  addressed  the  night  before,  lay  in  piles  on  the 
desk.  His  uncle  was  bound  to  come  soon  and  look  for 
them.  When  he  came,  there  would  be  explanations.  An- 
toine sighed — then  yawned.  He  turned  his  attention  to  the 
fire,  which  Yvonne  had  lit  for  him,  regardless  of  economy, 
and  which  was  pouring  beautifully  up  the  chimney.  It  was 
hot.  He  felt  it  on  his  face,  since  his  hands  were  covered. 
It  was  delightful  to  be  hot,  and  to  have  a  fire  to  look  at  as 
long  as  he  pleased.  He  looked  for  five  minutes,  and  then 
went    to  sleep  suddenly  for  an  hour.    When  he  awoke,  the 


532  SUCCESSION 

letters  on  the  desk  were  gone.  Evidently  his  uncle  had 
been  there.  Antoine  had  missed  his  opportunity — annoy- 
ing! He  frowned,  wriggled  and  felt  thirsty.  Nobody 
came.  A  death-like  silence  reigned,  as  it  had  not  before  his 
sleep.  He  had  heard  Yvonne  then  in  the  kitchen,  singing 
a  Breton  tune,  and  Margot  knocking  the  corners  of  the 
vestibule  with  her  broom.  Antoine  felt  indignant  at  the 
protracted  silence,  and  decided  to  stir  things,  and  vex  some- 
body, by  getting  up  to  fetch  some  water.  He  could  not 
move — absurd.  He  did  not  want  to  move — absurder  still. 
Life  became  really  too  long,  when  a  whole  morning  passed 
with  nothing  occurring  in  it  at  all — the  fete  too !  It  was 
New  Year's  Day,  He  remembered  a  few  other  New  Years, 
pleasanter  and  noisier,  in  this  house;   music,  at  least,  and 

presents,  and Useless  to  think  of  that,  for  it  made 

him  want  to  cry.  He  caught  sight  of  the  old  violin-case 
on  the  chair,  where  Savigny  had  left  it,  and  his  vague 
desires  took  shape. 

"  Jacques !  I  want  Jacques,"  he  murmured,  with  closed 
eyes,  passionately. 

"  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a,  cheri?"  said  Yvonne.  He  opened 
them  upon  her.    Was  it  midday  then,  at  last? 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  irritably,  sweeping  a  hand  across  his 
face.    "  I  think  there  is  too  much  water  in  my  head." 

Yvonne  retired,  and  sent  Philip.  An  inspiration,  this. 
Philip  was  cheerful,  in  a  brilliant  mood.  His  father  was 
coming  to  tea  with  the  Rats:  the  Rats  were  feting  him — 
Jespersen's  notion.  They  were  going  to  have  an  assault- 
at-arms  afterwards,  to  amuse  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  Antoine,  his  eyes  glowing.  "  I  wish  I  could 
go.    I  suppose  I  can't.    Do  you  think  if " 

Philip  did  not  think,  on  the  contrary.  If  Antoine  be- 
haved really  well,  and  did  not  shed  tears  more  than  six 
times  before  the  evening,  he  should  see  his  father  for  a 
short  time.  "  Twenty  minutes  at  most,"  Philip  explained. 
"  And  not  two  if  you  cry." 


THE    FETE  533 

"  I  shall  not,"  said  Antoine  positively.  "  I  am  very  happy, 
really." 

He  was  certain  now  it  was  a  good  fete,  since  Philip  was 
so  kind.  Philip  allowed  him  to  talk  a  little,  and  talked  him- 
self a  good  deal.  Antoine  and  he  compared  notes  about  the 
mystery  of  the  violin,  and  came  oddly  enough  to  the  same 
conclusion,  highly  creditable  to  Jacques.  This  was  cheer- 
ing; especially  as  Philip  said  nothing  either  about  the  duel, 
or  about  Jacques'  quarrel  with  his  bread-and-butter,  as 
represented  by  his  employer,  the  cafe  manager. 

"Will  you  go  with  M.  Bronne  and  see  him?"  Antoine 
asked.  "  He  will  like  to  see  you.  He  has  a  beautiful  high 
room." 

**  I  can't  this  afternoon,"  said  Philip,  "  and  Bronne's 
probably  engaged.  One  of  these  days  we'll  manage  it." 
That  was  settled. 

Then  they  talked  about  Alanuel  Ribiera  and  the  quintet — 
Antoine  did  that  part.  Antoine  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  would  be  polite  to  write  to  Ribiera  at  once,  as  to  his  un- 
fortunate incapacity  to  perform  on  the  sixth.  Would  his 
brother  mind  sending  the  note? 

"  Don't  put  his  back  up,"  advised  Philip.  "  He's  not 
sufficiently  fond  of  you  to  stand  much  cheek." 

It  would  not  be  cheek,  far  from  it,  Antoine  assured  him. 
A  most  careful  communication,  short  and  striking  like 
Ribiera's  own,  which  Philip  should  be  shown  as  model.  A 
few  kind  lines — a  well-made  signature  at  the  end. 

"  Hadn't  Savigny  better  sign  it  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"Why?"  said  Antoine,  pausing. 

"  Ribiera  thinks  you  are  a  jolly  farceur.  He  never  be- 
lieved you  were  bad  enough  to  cut  the  rehearsal.  He  might 
not  take  your  word." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  will,"  said  Antoine  earnestly.  "  Ribiera  be- 
lieves me  when  I  talk." 

"  When  you  talk,  perhaps.     Writing's  different." 

Antoine  saw  the  point.  "  I  shall  say  I  am  in  bed,"  he  said 
thoughtfully.     "  So  if  he  likes  to  come  here — do  you  see? 


534  SUCCESSION 

I  will  not  speak  of  Jacques,  because  that  annoyed  him  be- 
fore." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  I  need  not,"  said  Antoine.  "  I  expect  he  will  see  how 
I  mean,  if  I  write  carefully." 

"  Left-handed  ? "  said  Philip.  As  to  that,  Antoine  was 
not  sure ;  but  he  would  be  clearly  entertained  to  try.  Philip 
was  only  too  delighted  to  entertain  him,  by  whatever  means ; 
for  he  looked  terribly  ill,  and  he  feared  his  father  would  be 
discontented  if  he  could  not  improve  his  appearance  before 
the  evening. 

After  lunch,  M.  Lemaure  sat  with  Antoine  for  an  hour; 
a  kind  proceeding;  since  the  rest  were  out.  While  he  was 
there,  Antoine  started  a  conversation  several  times,  with 
singularly  small  result.  His  uncle  was  quite  pleasant  in  his 
responses,  though  brief;  and  as  he  was  sorting  papers  at 
his  escritoire,  kept  his  back  turned  steadily.  This  constant 
back  view,  and  the  rustle  he  made,  worried  Antoine  to  the 
point  of  frenzy.  He  had  to  guess  the  expression  of  his 
face,  instead  of  seeing  it ;  and  how  can  one  converse  to  any 
profit  on  such  terms?  He  could  not  arrive  anywhere  near 
the  thing  he  wished  to  say,  and  wriggled  in  desperation,  till 
he  completely  lost  the  commanding  and  comfortable  posi- 
tion which  he  had  first  enjoyed,  owing  to  Philip's  inspired 
arrangement. 

About  two,  Madame  entered  upon  them.  Her  appear- 
ance, beautiful,  in  silky  fur,  and  her  clear-cut,  soft  voice 
brought  relief,  certainly  to  Antoine,  possibly  to  both.  At 
least,  their  heads  turned  willingly  towards  her. 

"  Savigny  will  not  come  to  dinner,  Lucien,"  she  said. 
"  Is  he  not  a  hopeless  spoil-sport  ?  He  says  he  will  send 
Louis  Bronne  if  we  like.  Now,  does  he  suppose  I  want  a 
consultation?  " 

"  He  is  nice,"  Antoine  suggested, 

"  Far  too  nice,"  said  Madame.  "  I  want  conversation, 
and  contradiction,    I  need  it.    M.  Bronne  agrees  with  me." 


THE    FETE  535 

"  What  is  Raymond's  excuse  ?  "  said  Lucien. 

"What  do  you  suppose?  A  convalescent  patient,  an 
unfortunate  girl,  is  dining  with  him,  tete-a-tete.  They  all 
have  to  pass  that  test  before  he  lets  them  go — n'est-ce-pas?  " 
She  appealed  to  the  boy,  who  nodded. 

"  She  will  be  frightened,  I  expect,"  he  murmured.  "  That 
is  an  ugly  dining-room." 

"  It  is  hideous,"  said  Madame,  with  fervour.  "  But  I 
mean  to  sacrifice  myself,  and  dine  there  this  very  night.  I 
shall  invite  Duchatel  to  meet  me,  and  the  patient  shall  stay 
upstairs." 

Antoine  was  much  amused.  "  She  had  better  come 
down,"  he  suggested,  "  It  will  be  so  different  for  her,  with 
you  and  Victor  talking." 

"  It  is  not  my  role  to  cure  Savigny's  patients,"  said 
Madame.  "  Except  you,  my  sweet — and  I  fear  you  suffer 
by  this  plan.  It  leaves  you  solitary,  eh?  "  She  put  a  hand 
on  the  coverlet ;    he  shrank  just  perceptibly. 

"  Oh  no,  you  must  go,"  he  protested.  "  It  will  be  amus- 
ing, if  Savigny  does  not  know." 

"  It  is  not  to  be  borne,"  she  contended.  "  He  writes  in 
pencil,  look !  I  propose  to  wear  my  new  dress ;  will  that 
frighten  him  sufficiently  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  like  it."  He  started  slightly  as  his  uncle  turned. 
"You  will  go  too?"  he  ventured. 

"  You  are  mad,  Cecile,"  said  Lucien,  leaning  a  hand  on 
the  table.  "  You  will  get  no  dinner  either — his  kitchen  is 
past  praying  for." 

"  Ah,"  she  said  gravely.  "  That  is  true.  Must  we  have 
some  dinner  sent  in?  Perhaps  we  had  really  better  go  to 
coffee  afterwards,  since  Victor  is  particular.  We  will  dine 
early,  which  will  release  Margot.  You  will  join  us,  hein,  mon 
ami  ?    There  are  chairs  enough,  so  far  as  I  remember." 

After  a  pause,  M.  Lemaure  said,  pushing  in  a  drawer, 
"  You  had  better  go  alone." 

"  It  will  do  you  good,"  she  pleaded.  "  A  friend  like  Ray- 
mond— voyons !  " 


536  SUCCESSION 

"  Who  has  not  invited  us,"  he  said. 

"  Bah,  I  will  get  you  an  invitation,  if  you  are  so  pedantic. 
It  is  a  harmless  game,  with  him.  And,  if  he  is  annoyed, 
it  will  amuse  this  little  one  to  hear  of  it,  which  is  the  most 
important." 

"  My  going  will  spoil  the  square,"  said  Lucien. 

"  Psst — jealous!  Look  at  it  this  way,  you  will  spoil  these 
boys'  tete-a-tete  if  you  stay." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Antoine,  and  then,  remembering  a  pos- 
sible father,  blushed. 

"You  see?"  She  indicated.  "They  can  be  in  here  to- 
gether, and  Yvonne  will  look  after  them.  It  is  really  a  far 
better  plan  than  the  other."  She  glanced  at  Antoine  with 
meaning,  since  his  eyes  were  diverted.  "  Savigny  likes  to 
be  an  institution — it  is  only  treating  him  as  a  restaurant. 
That  I  will  explain,  au  debut." 

Antoine  giggled  again.  "  He  will  be  so  angry,"  he  mur- 
mured.    "  He  was  rather  cross  already  to-day." 

"  Ah,"  said  Madame.  "  Were  you  not  so  well  as  he  ex- 
pected?" She  looked  down  at  him  keenly,  though  she 
jested.  His  utter  languor  disturbed  them  all,  though  his 
spirits  were  good  enough.  He  shrank  at  any  approach,  and 
seemed  afraid  to  move.  To  be  lifted  was  a  nervous  tor- 
ment, and  Philip  alone  could  accomplish  it.  The  pain, 
though  it  had  held  off  since,  had  frightened  him  thoroughly, 
and  they  could  only  judge  what  it  had  been  by  his  present 
attitude  towards  it.  He  lifted  a  hand  now,  as  though  to 
keep  her  from  him.  She  stooped  and  held  the  hand  to 
examine,  with  dainty  little  finger  touches. 

"Stiff  still,  is  it?"  she  queried.  "The  silly  boy  you 
were !    Have  you  confessed  to  him  about  it  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  the  colour  burning  faintly  in  his  face 
again. 

"  He  has  confessed  nothing  at  all,"  said  Lucien,  "  since 
I  do  not  allow  it." 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  said  Antoine,  concealing  the  band- 
aged hand.    "  Because  Savigny  says  I  may  not  play." 


THE    FETE  537 

"  When  did  he  say  that  ? "  snapped  his  uncle,  without 
turning. 

"  This  morning.  He  is  quite  sure.  I  cannot  do  the  con- 
cert ;  not  any  of  the  Ribiera  ones,  none  of  them."  A  dii^- 
cult  pause.  "  He  did  not  say  I  was  to  tell  you,"  said  the 
boy,  catching  for  his  breath,  "  but  I  think  he  meant  that." 

"If  that  is  not  exactly  like  him!"  Madame  exclaimed. 
"  He  told  us,  and  at  once,  darling.  It  is  not  your  fault — 
why  should  you  think  so?  Lucien,  for  heaven's  sake  re- 
assure him." 

Her  husband,  whose  back  had  been  turned,  swung  his 
chair  about  and  spoke  firmly.  "  Leave  it,  Cecile,"  he  said. 
"  Antoine  is  right,  we  have  not  had  our  explanation ;  nor 
can  we  have  it  until  he  is  stronger.  He  has  to  be  a  good 
boy,  and  keep  as  quiet  as  possible." 

"  I — hate  it,"  murmured  Antoine,  with  set  teeth.  His 
eyes  were  shut,  his  face  a  mask  of  revolt  for  all  its  startling 
pallor.  He  could  not  imagine  why  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks,  and  wiped  them  off  furtively  with  the  sheet.  Tears, 
thus  intrusively  replacing  the  power  to  speak,  were  an  ex- 
asperating symptom  of  his  weakness.  Besides,  Philip  had 
forbidden  it.  "  When  did  Savigny  tell  you  ?  "  he  said,  at 
last,  with  creditable  evenness. 

"  Before  he  left  the  house,  at  nine.  Of  course  he  in- 
tended to,"  said  Lucien.  "  It  is  even  his  duty,  since  he  has 
treated  us  so  unfairly." 

"Did  he  say — everything?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Lucien,  with  a  glance.  "  We  went 
to  Ribiera  this  morning." 

"You  did?    Oh!" 

"  It  is  my  duty  to,"  said  Lucien,  patting  the  papers  into 
piles.  "  It  is  business,  you  observe.  You  really  are  not 
concerned.    As  your  aunt  says,  it  is  not  your  fault." 

Antoine  was  thankful  to  hear  it,  even  in  that  tone.  Things 
were  a  little  less  awful  than  he  thought — though  there  was 
no  doubt  of  his  uncle's  resentment.    Well,  at  least  he  could 


538  SUCCESSION 

not  break  down  at  a  concert,  at  least  for  two  years.  No 
one  could  be  vexed  again  in  that  way. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Little.  Raymond  did  the  saying,  with  authority  and 
ability.    I  could  not  have  improved  it,"  said  Lucien. 

Antoine  bit  his  lip.  "What  was  Ribiera  like?"  he  said 
fearfully.    "  Was  he  awful  ?  " 

"  Like  a  tiger  baulked  of  his  prey.  We  had  not  known," 
said  Lucien,  "  you  were  so  appreciated." 

"  I  wrote  myself  to  Ribiera,"  said  Antoine. 

"Youf"    His  uncle  turned  half  about  again. 

"  I  thought  it  was  better.  I  had  Philippe's  pen,  and  quite 
a  nice  little  piece  of  paper  Yvonne  found." 

"She  had  no  business  to  find  it.     What  did  you  say?" 

"  Not  much,  because  it  is  hard  to  write  here.  Of  course, 
I  did  not  know  you  would  go,  then,"  added  Antoine. 

"  Tell  us  the  words,  dearest,"  said  Madame.  Her  hus- 
band was  sitting,  brows  raised,  eyes  diverted,  tearing  at  his 
moustache  with  a  restless  hand. 

"  I  have  forgotten.    It  was  very  careful — and  polite." 

"Did  Philippe  read  it?" 

"  Oh  yes.  There  was  a  postscript,"  said  Antoine  dream- 
ily. 

"  And  what  was  the  subject  of  the  postscript?  "  said  his 
aunt,  smiling.  After  a  pause,  he  turned  his  dark  eyes  to 
her.  Their  expression  was  so  beautiful  that  she  could 
hardly  bear  it. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,  I  think,"  he  said.  "  Philippe  took 
it  with  his  bicycle,  to  be  quicker."  Then,  as  though  forc- 
ing himself,  he  faced  the  silent  uncle  and  held  out  a  hand. 
"  That  was  kind  of  you  to  do  my  business,"  he  said.  "  I 
was  afraid  Ribiera  would  swear  a  little  when  he  heard. 
But  there  is  time  to  get  another,  before  the  sixth — I  said 
that." 

"  You  did  not  suggest  your  substitute  ?  "  said  Lucien,  still 
dry,  but  more  gentle. 


THE    FETE  539 

"  Oh  no — I  did  not  suggest  him."  The  polite  letter- 
writer  was  shocked  at  the  idea. 

"  Antoine!    You  have  not  been  imprudent  again?  " 

"  No — really,"  the  boy  assured  him.  "  It  was  all  exactly 
the  ordinary  things  that  we  said."  He  turned  his  head, 
for  Philip  entered  the  room  after  a  fashion  he  was  prac- 
tising, not  soundlessly,  hut  with  one  neat  click  of  the  door- 
latch  to  give  warning  of  his  approach, 

"  Philippe,  relieve  our  agony,"  Madame  entreated. 
"  What  did  this  creature  wTite  to  Ribiera?  He  assures  us 
it  was  commonplace." 

Philip's  short  laugh  was  in  a  manner  not  exactly  reas- 
suring. "  It's  gone  now,  anyhow,"  he  said,  "  so  we  shall 
all  have  to  put  up  with  the  consequences."  Then  he  looked 
his  brother  over.  "What  have  you  been  doing?"  he  de- 
manded severely  in  English.    "  That's  not  how  I  left  you." 

"  I  forget  how  it  was.    It  does  not  matter,"  said  Antoine. 

"  It's  the  one  thing  that  does  matter,  how  you  lie.  Have 
you  been  talking?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  much.  They — he  would  not  let  me.  Phil- 
ippe, do  not,"  he  panted,  frowning,  fighting  away  the  hands 
on  him.  "  It  is  horrible  to  move.  Laisse — voyons !  I — am 
so  tired." 

"  1  sha'n't  hurt  you,  ducky,"  said  Philip  lower.  "  Let 
yourself  go,  now.  It's  all  right."  He  raised  him  deftly  to 
the  former  position.  "  Now,  you  shut  your  eyes,"  he  ad- 
vised, "  and  keep  your  mouth  shut  too,  except  for  snor- 
ing if  you  feel  inclined.  I'm  going  to  read  to  you  a  bit, 
before  I  meet  papa." 

"  Are  they  not  charming?  "  said  Madame,  when  they  had 
withdrawn,  leaving  the  pair  together.  "  Sometimes  I 
think  Phil  could  hardly  be  improved." 

"  The  boy  could,  easily.  What  Raymond  can  have  been 
thinking  of,"  muttered  Lucien,  with  indignation.  "  Prop- 
erly watched,  he  could  never  possibly  have  dropped  like 
that,  before  our  eyes.  He  has  Marcel's  contour  now — I 
cannot  bear  to  look  at  him." 


540  SUCCESSION 

"  That  is  a  little  too  evident,"  said  Madame.  She  picked 
up  a  book  on  the  study  table,  and  threw  it  down.  Why  not 
now,  after  all,  she  reflected  ?  "  Lucien,  can  you  not  leave 
all  thought  of  Marcel,  or  whosoever  it  may  be,  and  treat 
him  as  himself?  Really,  you  seem  to  forget  he  has  a 
character,  and  deserts.  There  are  a  dozen  things  he  longs 
to  know,  which  only  you  can  tell  him." 

"  He  is  not  strong  enough " 

"  Pish,"  she  said  rather  drily.  "  You  know  he  is.  Ray- 
mond told  us  he  was  gloriously  brave.  He  only  asks  the 
truth,  which  only  you  possess.  His  eyes  were  demanding 
it,  as  you  sat  there,  turned  away." 

"  I  am  not  strong  enough,"  corrected  Lucien.  "  As  you 
will.     You  must  be  patient,  Cecile." 

Madame  frowned.  Sentiment  he  might  have  known 
would  not  move  her,  and  satire,  in  this  case,  helped  little. 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "  But  it  is  waiting,  with  such  na- 
tures, that  does  the  harm:  has  done  it,  for  all  you  know. 
Will  you  wait  for  him  to  challenge  you — for  he  will." 

"As  to  what?" 

"  As  to  the  things  he  has  a  right  to  know — your  father's 
last  hours." 

"  He  will  not  dare  to  speak  of  my  father.  He  has  some 
discretion  left.  It  is  for  me  to  choose  when  I  address  him. 
Or  if,"  said  Lucien. 

"  You  cannot  wrestle  with  nature,  my  friend.  You  risk 
a  downfall.     He  is  quick." 

"  If  you  mean  he  judges  me  already,  I  know  that,"  he 
was  beginning,  but  she  interrupted. 

"Judges?  He  is  incapable  of  judging!  You  are  think- 
ing of  somebody  else.  Oh,  that  is  the  worst  of  large  fam- 
ilies. Marcel,  is  it? — never  mind.  Antoine  cannot  enter 
your  character  to  judge  it.  You  are  either  clear  to  him,  or 
a  blank  wall.  Be  clear,  Lucien.  Show  him,  for  good  or 
evil,  what  you  think.  Blame  him — bully  him,  like  Raymond 
— better  anything  than  simply  embarrass  him  as  you  did 


THE    FETE  541 

to-day.  I  am  in  earnest.  You  must  be  quick,  or  he  will 
leap  on  you  unaware." 

"  You  speak  of  the  boy  like  an  animal,"  said  Lucien. 
But  her  steady  criticism  was  shaking  him,  as  his  uncertain 
tone  showed. 

"  I  mean  no  such  comparison.  His  motives  are  as  sim- 
ple as  an  animal's,  that  is  all.  One  must  speak  of  it  in 
images,  where  analysis  fails.  I  mean — since  you  do  not 
love  him." 

"I  do  not?" 

"  Not  a  whit.  Any  affection  would  have  made  you  give 
him  your  confidence  at  once,  regardless  of  pride,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be.  And  note,  his  must  tire  in  time.  You  are 
risking  finding  it  spent." 

"  You  mean  he " 

"  Most  certainly  he  cares  for  you.  We  had  a  beautiful 
proof  of  it  the  night  your  brothers  were  here.  Andre  was 
touched  by  that,  I  noticed,  but  not  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  came  for  you.  Andre  told  me  he  mentioned  you 
were  suffering,  and  he  roused  himself  and  came  at  once. 
He  saved  our  little  party  alone  and  unaided  for  your  sake. 
It  is  a  small  thing,  but  worth  noting." 

"  It  is  barely  an  effort  to  him,"  said  Lucien,  after  a  pause. 
"  Antoine  pleases  and  is  pleased  easily.  One  had  but  to 
watch  him  to  see." 

"  Ungenerous  !  "  she  said  warmly.  "  That  is  ungenerous 
simply.  You  might  think  a  little,  if  you  cannot  feel.  As 
though  he  was  not  suffering  as  much  as  you,  and  more." 

"  He  cannot  suffer  more." 

"  Pardon — what  can  you  know  of  that  ?  Even — I  must 
say  it — even  if  you  dislike  the  boy,  do  him  justice.  Why, 
reason  alone  is  sufficient.  Lucien,  do  you  remember  two 
years  ago — the  trouble  we  had  with  him — our  remorse? 
Will  you  venture  to  say  he  did  not  suffer  then  ?  And  what 
is  that  compared  with  this?  Never  mind  his  actions,  rea- 
son it.     He  must  be  almost  heartbroken." 


542  SUCCESSION 

"  You  think   the   present  illness   due "     He  turned 

about. 

"  I  do  not  assert  it — Gervais  Weber  must  be  allowed  his 
symptoms — but  my  reason  works.  Could  he  fail  to  suffer, 
coming  as  he  did  that  morning,  too  late  for  farewell,  hav- 
ing offended  your  father,  as  he  thought,  three  times  over? 
Did  you  recognize  that?  Having  the  last  word,  as  trans- 
ferred from  his  mouth,  a  cold  one?  Having  no  answer,  no 
message  even,  in  return  for  his  own  little  letter,  which  I 
saw? " 

"  You  ?  "    He  almost  stared. 

"  Why,  yes ;  he  showed  it  to  me — fearing  his  own  im- 
pulses, poor  child,  so  greatly  had  you  and  the  cautious  ones 
discouraged  him.  It  was  a  confession  of  failure,  a  promise 
to  do  better,  most  childish,  most  charming — touching,  and 
I  say  it,  to  tears.  I  altered  not  a  word,  heaven  forfend  it. 
Did  your  father  not  read  it  even?" 

"  No."  He  still  stared,  almost  vacantly.  Brought  into 
conflict  with  her,  he  felt  as  he  had  not  with  Savigny,  the 
full  force  of  what  he  had  done ;  and  at  the  same  time  knew 
it  irremediable.  It  did  awaken  him  a  little  from  his  self- 
absorbed  stupor. 

"  Speak  to  him,"  she  finished  strenuously.  "  Be  kind 
at  least,  since  he  was  kind  to  you.  It  is  not  credible  you 
should  not  see  the  importance  of  keeping  his  affection, 
since  we  must  have  him  with  us  all  this  year.  Why  should 
you,  of  all  people,  resent  the  fact  that  it  is  easily  won  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  he  said,  troubled,  and  stopped.  "  I  may  have 
been  wrong.  I  cannot  judge " — he  stopped  again — 
"  now." 

"  No,"  she  said,  all  her  gentleness  returning.  "  Very 
well."  She  felt  tired  suddenly,  for  she  had  been  thinking 
hard  for  two  during  the  little  interview ;  and  she  had  forced 
him  to  betray  his  limits,  a  painful  thing  for  both.  After 
a  little  she  rose,  touched  him  as  though  for  forgiveness, 
and  went  with  her  pretty  languid  step  from  the  room. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  reflected  over  her  glass  in  the  room 


THE    FETE  543 

below,  "  why  Lucien  is  afraid  of  loving?  Surely  it  was  not 
his  father  taught  him  that.  It  seems,  in  the  definition,  a 
simple  thing."  Then,  without  a  pause,  the  critic  turned  and 
rent  herself.  "  Definition !  "  mocked  the  inner  voice.  "  Do 
I  love  Antoine  intellectually?  It  looks  like  that.  Genius 
is  so  refreshing,  in  our  world.  My  feeling  to  Phil  is  cer- 
tainly quite  different.     .     .     ." 

Philip  accompanied  his  father  to  the  station,  and  told 
the  household  carelessly  that  he  might  be  late  returning. 

"  You  will  not  expect  your  little  brother  to  wait  supper 
for  you  ?  "  said  his  aunt.  *'  We  are  dining  early  to  go  out, 
and  hoped  to  entrust  him  to  you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Philip.  "  He  can  eat  a  bowl  of  gruel  before 
I  come,  if  that's  all.     I'll  pick  up  something  down  there." 

Yvonne,  who  had  made  her  plans,  looked  pained.  "  I 
have  not  prepared  M.  Antoine's  supper,"  she  said.  "  He 
prefers  to  wait  for  M.  Philippe,  not  being  hungry  at  all." 

"  Temper,"  Philip  commented.  "  Sheer  jealousy  that  is, 
papa.  He  thinks  I  oughtn't  to  go  to  the  station  with  you, 
because  he  can't.  He  practically  told  me  as  much,  just 
now." 

"  Well,  don't,"  said  James,  getting  into  his  coat. 
Yvonne's  face  cleared  at  once. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Philip.    "  Don't  you  want  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  get  on  without  you.  I'd  sooner  he  ate  his  supper, 
anyway." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Philip,  injured,  "  if  he  means  to  cry 
till  I  come  in  again " 

"  II  ne  pleure  pas,"  said  the  maid.  "  It  is  only  we  had 
arranged  a  little  supper  for  the  fete." 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  I'll  eat  it,  if  that's  all,"  said  Philip,  re- 
covering cheerfulness.  "  Anything  in  that  line  to  amuse 
him,  any  time.  It's  only  a  fellow  I've  got  to  see,  Yvonne : 
I  sha'n't  be  long." 

"  Bien,  Monsieur,"  said  Yvonne.  "  M.  Antoine  would 
eat  himself,  if  Monsieur  son  papa  spoke  to  him." 


544  SUCCESSION 

"  I'm  going  to  miss  my  train  among  'em,"  murmured 
Jem.  "If  I  go  back,  he'll  keep  me  another  five  minutes 
talking,  just  when  I  had  him  quiet,  hey  ?  "  He  looked  at 
the  girl  keenly,  for  he  and  she  were  old  allies.  "  You  make 
it  and  take  it  him,"  he  said.  "  He'll  have  to  eat  it  then — 
manners,  see?    You  can  say  I  wanted  it,  if  you  like." 

"  And  if  he  throws  it  at  her?  "  suggested  Philip.  "  Our 
respected  nerves  are  a  little  shaky  to-night." 

Jem  was  unmoved.  "  Oh — then  you  can  give  it  him,  also 
from  me,  when  you  get  home.  But  somehow  I  don't  think 
he  will,"  he  added,  on  the  stairs  without.  "  She  has  plenty 
of  character,  that  girl.  It  was  only  a  bit  of  woman's 
blague  to  get  me  back  to  him.  I  don't  hold  ever  with  going 
back." 

"  When  you've  finished  a  job,"  suggested  Philip.  "  Did 
you  finish  him  off,  papa  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,"  said  Jem,  "  I'm  glad  I  shortened  it. 
He'd  had  enough." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  how  I  finished  Ostrowski  ? "  said 
Philip,  whose  mind  was  running  on  his  recent  prowess  in 
the  Rats'  exhibition  of  sword-play. 

"  I  may  have  mentioned  it,"  said  Jem.  "  He  seemed  a 
bit  keen.    Is  he  a  fighter  himself  ?  " 

"  Jespersen  taught  him  a  little.  He  wouldn't  be  so  bad 
if  he  practised.     He's  a  good  wrist  and  a  straight  eye. 

Perhaps  he'll   be  able  to "   Philip   stopped   discreetly. 

"  Well,  six  months  hence,"  he  improved  it. 

"  Possibly,"  said  Jem.  "  Fencing  is  not  bad  exercise. 
I'll  try  it  when  I  get  him  out  there." 

"  Whatf"  ejaculated  Philip,  in  a  tone  so  genuinely  fright- 
ened that  his  father  laughed. 

"  It's  not  settled  yet,"  he  said.  "  But  I  thought  you  had 
better  be  posted  up,  old  boy.  It's  a  little  plan  I've  had  for 
some  time,  turning  it  about.  Now  seems  the  moment  to 
push  it  through.    That's  all." 

"  But — have  you  spoken  to  them  ?  "  , 

"  Whom  ?     I  came  along  to-day  to  take  a  preliminary 


THE    FETE  545 

survey.  It  will  relieve  your  aunt,  at  least,  of  quite  an  un- 
fair responsibility.  She's  had  more  than  enough  bother 
,vith  you  both,  to  my  ideas."' 

"  Savigny,"  said  Philip,  breathless  almost. 

"  I've  thought  of  Savigny.  I  don't  think  he'll  make  any 
lerious  objection.'' 

"Papa!.  He'll  kill  you." 

"  Savigny  will  ?  Oh  no,  my  lad.  He's  too  good  a  man 
■or  that."    They  walked  for  a  time  in  silence. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  to-day  ?  "  Philip  asked. 

"  No.  Better  not,  I  thought.  I'll  leave  the  proposal  to 
;ink  a  bit,  and  not  follow  it  up  too  closely.  It's  time  I  had 
he  boy,  I  think.  Some  folk  would  say  it's  a  bit  late, 
rhere's  not  much  of  him  left." 

"He's  thin,  isn't  he?"  Philip  pondered  desperately:  he 
felt  rather  lost.     "  Papa — does  he  want  to?" 

"  He  did,  when  I  first  planted  the  idea.  He's  not  very 
ceen  for  the  moment,  poor  little  kiddy.  Frightened  of  the 
journey,  I  think." 

"  It's  an  awful  way,"  said  Philip. 

"  So-so,"  said  his  father.  "  I've  friends  all  the  way 
icross.  We'll  go  by  easy  stages  now  and  then.  I'll  see 
:o  it,"  said  Jem  confidently. 

"  You're  plucky,  papa,"  said  Philip. 

"  I  consider  it's  worth  risking,"  said  Jem  calmly.  "  I've 
Dcen  thinking  it  out.  I  know  that  if  I  could  once  get  him 
right  across,  I  could  get  him  better.  I'm  certain  of  that, 
^ou  fellows  have  no  notion  what  that  climate  is — no  one 
:an  have  without  feeling  it.  I  shall  be  busy  this  trip,  but 
not  so  busy.  It's  only  an  overlooking  job,  and  fairly  aris- 
tocratic conditions.  You  see,  I'm  getting  an  old  fellow, 
left  behind.  Well  then,  we'll  be  stranded  together,  that's 
my  plan.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him,  never  fear."  He  placed 
a  hand  on  Philip's  arm.    The  boy  found  nothing  to  say. 

"  I  may  go  wrong,"  Jem  proceeded  presently,  with  a 
sardonic  touch,  "  but  I  can't  mucker  worse  than  they've 
done,  after  all.    I've  held  off,  and  let  them  have  their  fling." 


546  SUCCESSION 

He  reflected  a  moment,  still  holding  Philip's  arm.  "  I've 
nothing  against  the  French,"  he  said.  "  Couldn't  have  very- 
well,  you'll  say,  when  it's  that  way  my  children  get  their 
brains.  Their  intellectual  standard's  magnificent;  but  there 
are  one  or  two  things  they  miss,  according  to  me.  For  all 
the  years  I  was  here,  I  never  got  to  believe  that  air  and  light 
and  exercise,  for  instance,  can  really  be  replaced,  even  by 
the  finest  culture  in  Europe.  I  don't  expect  you  to  agree 
with  me  now,  but  being  British-born,  I  stick  to  my  ideas." 
Philip  had  no  smile. 

"  I  saw  Weber  to-day,"  said  Jem  more  seriously.  "  A 
nice  fellow — cautious.  He's  not  hopeless — didn't  drop  cold 
water  on  my  plan,  as  I  was  ready  to  find  he  should.  He 
says  often,  in  the  touch-and-go  cases,  strong  steps  are  best. 
Well,  I  had  had  a  kind  of  idea  that  that  was  so.  It'll  be  a 
change  of  everything,  you  see:  a  turn-over.  He  has  tried 
this  little  civilisation,  sucked  the  juice  out  of  it,  I  reckon, 
for  he  goes  pretty  fast.    Well !  " 

"  There'll  be  a  tram  directly,"  said  Philip,  looking  up  the 
street.  Jem  glanced  at  him  while  they  waited,  and  his  face 
in  the  light  of  the  lamp  above  looked  white. 

"  A  bit  hard  on  him,  this  is,"  thought  Jem,  who  was  as 
usual  fulfilling  part  of  an  organised  plan  in  speaking. 
"  He's  had  a  shock  too,  recently.  Wonder  if  I  should  have 
waited  till  he  got  over  it."  Unconsciously  his  eye  measured 
the  distance  to  the  approaching  tram.  Having  begun,  he 
disliked  to  leave  a  job  unfinished,  as  he  said. 

"  See  there,"  he  said  lower,  since  the  crowd  was  near, 
and  touched  a  name  upon  a  poster  column.  "  Remember 
how  I  talked  to  you,  a  year  and  a  bit  ago?  He's  done  his 
best  for  us  since  then,  hasn't  he?  He's  dropped  for  the 
minute,  knocked  off,  for  all  his  cleverness.  Well,  we've 
got  to  do  our  best  for  him:  save  him  for  a  useful  life  if 
possible.  That's  what  I  propose,  and  what  I  mean  to  do. 
Anybody  may  be  wrong ;  but  no  one's  going  to  blame  me  for 
trying." 

"  I  supposed  it  was  that,"  said  the  boy  wearily.     They 


THE    FETE  547 

mounted  the  tram,  and  said  no  more ;  but  all  the  glory  of  his 
feats  of  arms  had  vanished  from  Philip's  horizon. 

Yvonne,  when  she  vi^ent  to  Antoine,  found  him  sur- 
rounded by  sheets  of  paper,  containing  scribbled  eleva- 
tions of  bridges,  one  of  which  he  was  conning  earnestly. 
He  frowned  at  the  intrusion  of  the  supper-bowl.  He  was 
rather  flushed,  and  did  not  look  a  hopeful  subject  for  ex- 
hortation. When  Yvonne  said  that  M.  son  papa  desired 
him  to  eat,  he  stared  at  her  with  evident  suspicion.  Still 
frowning,  and  his  eyes  distracted  by  the  bridge,  he  dipped 
the  spoon,  tasted  it,  and  laid  it  carefully  down.  Thereupon 
Yvonne,  instead  of  remaining  to  argue,  prepared  to  leave 
him  with  it  and  his  conscience.  Now,  Antoine  never  could 
bear  to  recognise  his  ownership  of  a  conscience:  it  was 
one  of  the  few  points  in  which  he  resembled  his  mother. 
He  preferred  to  defy  duty's  call  to  the  last  moment,  and 
then,  if  worsted,  defend  his  position  in  a  torrent  of  talk. 

"  Yvonne !  "  he  said  indignantly.  "  Attendez !  I  have 
not  finished  it." 

"  IMonsieur  will,"  said  Yvonne,  with  serenity.  "  And 
there  is  j\I.  Philippe's  dinner  to  prepare," 

"  Philippe  has  got  nicer  things,"  said  Antoine  positively. 

"  That  is  very  nice,"  said  Yvonne,  with  a  discreet  note 
of  offence  in  her  voice.  "  I  took  pains  to  strain  it,  since 
Monsieur  complained  before." 

Antoine  took  up  the  spoon  again  and  tried  a  little.  "  It 
is  pas  mal,"  he  said,  his  face  twisting  with  disgust  and 
weariness.  "  I  only  want  to  know  what  there  is  for  din- 
ner, as  if  I  was  to  have  it — like  the  rest." 

Yvonne  told  him  gently,  "  The  soufflee  is  very  good," 
she  said.  "  I  believe  it  would  not  hurt  you,  cheri.  It  will 
be  spoiled,  at  least,  if  M,  Philippe  does  not  come  soon." 

"  I  do  not  want  it,"  said  Antoine  quickly.  "  I  will  eat 
this,  now." 

"  Pauvre  petit,"  murmured  Yvonne.  She  had  rather 
suspected  his  conscience  would  work  by  contraries.     She 


548  SUCCESSION 

had  experience  of  Henriette's  boys.  Now,  seeing  him 
forcibly  sage,  and  eating  against  all  his  natural  desires,  he 
who  knew  so  well  what  good  food  was,  compassion  mas- 
tered her.  "  Monsieur  has  done  much  drawing,"  she  said, 
as  she  put  together  the  scattered  papers.  "  With  Monsieur 
son  papa,  hein?  That  is  how  they  did  long  since,  on  the 
sand." 

"  I  wish  I  was  on  the  sand,"  said  Antoine  bitterly.  "  It 
is  so  hot,  here."  He  watched  her  put  the  papers  in  a 
drawer,  not  protesting,  for  he  seemed  too  really  exhausted 
to  make  protest  worth  while,  "  The  good  ones  are  all 
his,"  he  said.     "  I  cannot  draw,  because  my  hand  shakes." 

"  The  left  hand,"  suggested  Yvonne. 

"  No — both.     I  tried  with  both !  " 

"  The  ideas  are  clever,  nevertheless,"  said  Yvonne  tact- 
fully. 

"  That  is  worth  nothing,  for  him,  if  the  lines  are  bad. 
You  ought  to  remember  that."  He  gave  her  a  single  look, 
sulky  and  sleepy  too.  "  It  was  to  help  papa  I  tried — but  I 
could  not  to-night.  Not  talk  to  him  either — there  was  too 
little  time.  He  ought  to  have  waited — for  it  to  be  better. 
I — I  told  him  that." 

"  Monsieur  is  tired,"  murmured  Yvonne.  "  He  will 
sleep  soon." 

"  Not  before  Philippe  comes.  I  shall  be  awake  for  him. 
I  wish  he  would  come  quickly. — Yvonne !  " 

"  Yes,  cheri?  " 

"  Go  and  make  his  supper — do  not  stand  there.  I  have 
finished  this — very  nearly." 

She  retreated  instantly  and  quietly.  "  He  will  sleep  be- 
fore long,"  she  reflected.  "  He  is  tired  out  now.  M. 
Philippe  will  not  mind  eating  in  the  kitchen  for  once,  if 
I  explain  to  him."  She  prepared  a  diplomatic  explanation, 
as  she  moved  among  her  pans. 

Before  long,  explanations  had  to  be  made,  but  not  to 
Philip.  It  was  a  young  man  of  about  his  age  who  arrived, 
but  rougher-looking,  uglier,  and  with  a  manner  that  dis- 


THE    FETE  549 

turbed  Yvonne,  though  the  swagger,  to  her  keen  eye, 
seemed  a  triile  overdone.  She  thought  he  had  been  drink- 
ing at  first,  but  decided,  before  the  interview  had  proceeded 
for  five  minutes,  that  he  was  too  acute.  His  demands,  as 
it  appeared,  were  harmless.  He  wanted  news  of  Antoine, 
having  heard  a  report  somewhere  of  his  ilhiess.  He  was 
not  satisfied  by  the  formal  bulletin  Savigny  had  issued  and 
ordained  for  the  public  inquiry  below  stairs  and  above.  A 
number  of  people  during  the  day,  including  M.  Duchatel, 
had  taken  that,  but  this  young  man  had  small  respect  for 
doctors.  He  winked  at  Yvonne  when  she  offered  it,  truth 
to  tell;  and  proceeded  to  drive  her  with  cunning  into  per- 
sonal detail,  catching  at  every  admission  hungrily,  yet 
with  a  triumph  that  annoyed  her.  One  might  have  said,  at 
the  end  of  a  few  minutes  of  the  game,  that  he  desired  an 
intimate  conversation  with  her,  and  saw  a  fair  chance  of 
having  it. 

Now,  it  may  seem  a  little  late  to  remark  that  Madame's 
maid  was  a  clever  girl,  and  accustomed,  more  than  many 
clever  girls  who  are  also  pretty,  to  various  types  of  young 
men.  She  judged  on  sight  that  this  was  an  exception  to  the 
rules  of  her  experience.  It  was  not  that  he  failed  to  ad- 
mire her — he  evidently  did  so.  Even  while  he  put  questions 
which  he  certainly  had  at  heart,  his  sharp  glance  was  run- 
ning over  her,  in  sly  flashes  sidelong,  both  appreciating  and 
taking  her  measure.  His  occasional  manner  of  taking  her 
up  proved  further,  beyond  question,  that  he  had  chaffed  with 
'girls  before.  Yet  in  spite  of  this,  when  Yvonne  made  her 
bold  step,  she  made  it  without  hesitation.  She  had  vari- 
ous motives,  but  the  excuse  she  made  to  herself  was  that 
his  voice  was  harsh,  and,  though  he  backed  from  her  a  little 
on  the  staircase,  too  audible.  As  she  failed  in  answering  to 
satisfy  his  curiosity,  it  did  not  become  less  violent — the 
reverse. 

"  Will  Monsieur  come  within,  to  the  kitchen,"  she  said 
softly.  "  M.  Antoine  hears  too  easily  at  all  times,  and  he 
should  not  be  disturbed,  for  he  needs  sleep.    Monsieur  his 


550  SUCCESSION 

brother  will  return  shortly,  without  doubt,  if  Monsieur  can 
wait  a  little." 

"  I  can  wait,  yes,"  said  Jacques.  His  tone  had  dropped 
at  once,  a  proof  of  Yvonne's  judgment  of  persons.  He 
had  no  wish  to  annoy  le  petit,  though  he  evidently  longed 
to  see  him.  He  followed  her,  with  a  silent  gait  like  a  slink- 
ing wolf,  across  the  little  vestibule,  down  the  passage  and 
into  the  kitchen  beyond.  Yvonne  closed  the  door  with 
care. 

"  Ca  y  est,"  she  said,  satisfied.  "  Now  Monsieur  can  ask 
as  he  will.  If  M.  Antoine  hears,  he  will  only  imagine  M. 
Philippe  has  arrived." 

She  signed  Jacques  to  a  chair,  but  he  did  not  sit.  He 
stood,  holding  by  the  mantelpiece,  as  though  attacked  by 
some  disturbance  of  mind  or  body  without  warning.  He 
had  only  eaten  once  that  day,  and  early,  and  he  had  been 
prowling  about,  watching  the  house,  for  long.  It  was  an 
ordeal  he  had  not  reckoned  for  in  his  planning,  to  have  to 
stand  in  a  well-warmed  kitchen,  with  delicious  savours 
reaching  him  from  the  covered  dishes  by  the  stove.  Meat 
and  bread,  the  lingering  exquisite  aroma  of  coffee  lately 
ground,  the  steam  from  bubbling  soup  in  a  small  pan — 
much  what  Jacques  would  have  chosen  himself  had  his 
small  store  reached  to  a  restaurant  meal.  He  sniffed  every- 
thing over  critically  first,  and  then  on  an  impulse  wandered 
away  round  the  kitchen,  stopping  as  far  from  the  stove  and 
its  pans  as  possible.  Yvonne  wondered  why  he  turned  his 
shoulder  to  her  so  persistently;  but  the  fact  is,  from 
Jacques'  point  of  view,  there  are  moments  when  even  a 
pretty  girl  may  be  neglected. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  wait,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"  There's  a  rendezvous  I  had  forgotten  come  to  my  mind, 
and  the  fellow  will  be  vexed.  Look  here,  I'll  write  some- 
thing and  leave  it.    You'll  see  he  has  it  in  private?  " 

Yvonne  promised,  watching  his  proceedings  sharply  for 
all  her  easy  and  collected  grace  of  the  French  maid,  trained 
in  an  English  house.    Something  had  reduced  him,  she  saw, 


THE    FETE  551 

and  had  she  been  vainer,  would  have  given  herself  the 
credit.  But  she  was  too  sensible,  and,  for  all  her  years, 
had  too  much  experience,  for  she  was  country  bred  in 
origin,  and  of  a  poor  farm  stock.  She  still  watched,  while 
he  felt  within  his  loose  clothes,  and  extracted  the  stump  of 
a  pencil  and  a  leaf  jerked  from  his  pocket-book,  and  while 
he  sat  at  the  table  over  the  scrap,  pondering  and  erasing,  a 
hand  supporting  his  head.  His  features,  seen  in  the  stronger 
light  of  the  lamp,  were  arresting,  ugly  as  they  were ;  his  hair 
had  been  allowed  to  grow,  and  touched  his  collar  behind ; 
but  it  was  the  hand  she  noticed  most.  It  had  the  same 
formation  as  M.  Antoine's,  which  she  had  been  dressing 
and  binding  up  that  evening,  though  larger,  darker-tinted, 
and  not  immaculately  clean.  The  nails,  however,  were  well 
kept,  her  sharp  feminine  eye  perceived.  It  was  not  an  un- 
distinguished hand,  though  it  had  been  used,  like  her  own, 
for  undistinguished  offices. 

"Monsieur  est  musicien?"  said  Yvonne,  disturbing  his 
thoughts.    He  assented  w^ith  a  movement. 

"He  does  not  call  himself  M.  Jacques,  par  exemple?" 

"  What  then  ?  "  he  said,  looking  round  under  his  lids. 

"  Because  le  petit  has  desired  a  M.  Jacques  so  much.  He 
spoke  of  him  lately  when  he  was  feverish.  He  said  this 
M.  Jacques  was  dead." 

"  So  he  may  be,"  said  the  visitor,  "  It's  not  an  uncom- 
mon name." 

"  M.  Antoine  was  excited — he  did  not  mean  all  he  said," 
observed  Yvonne. 

He  toyed  with  the  pencil  a  minute.  "  They've  forbid- 
den him  to  see  me,"  he  said  suddenly,  in  explanation.  "  It's 
that  doctor  cad,  probably.  Dangerous  I  am — dishonest — 
and  he's  a  gosse.  Nervous  too,  isn't  he?  Frightened  at 
anything,  hey  ?  " 

"  M.  Antoine  is  not  easily  frightened,"  said  Yvonne.    "  It 

is  only  that "     She  looked  towards  the  door.     Char- 

retteur  took  advantage  of  her  instantly. 

"  Look  here,  let  me  see  him,"  he  said,  flashing  his  sly 


552  SUCCESSION 

look  at  her,  half  bullying,  half  persuasive.  "  I'm  d-driven 
to  extremes,  and  can't  stand  much  fooling.  If  you  knew 
how  one  has  to  live  on  lies  and  hearsay,  you'd  understand." 

Yvonne  wavered.  "  M.  Savigny  will  not  have  him  see 
anybody.  He  is  tired  to-night  with  the  visit  of  his  father — 
and  he  may  be  asleep." 

"  If  he's  asleep  I  won't  disturb  him,"  Jacques  assured 
her,  rising,  "  I  want  to  see  him — see  that  he's  there.  I 
c-can't  believe  anybody,  that's  my  state.  On  my  honour,  I 
only  want  a  look.  I'll  be  quiet  enough.  I'll  go  like  a  s-snail 
on  the  grass." 

"  I  will  see  first,"  said  Yvonne,  her  composure  reproving 
his  excitement.  She  was  at  the  door,  touching  the  handle, 
when  something  made  her  say,  as  she  took  a  last  view  of 
his  attitude:     "Will  Monsieur  have  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

"  No,"  said  Jacques,  very  roughly  indeed ;  and,  dropping 
back  into  his  former  place  with  his  arms  on  the  table,  bent 
his  head  low  over  the  little  paper.  Yvonne,  sure  of  the  case, 
departed. 

"  He  is  hungry,  cheri,"  said  Yvonne,  putting  her  arms 
round  the  boy  to  lay  him  back  on  the  pillows,  for  he  had 
struggled  up  before  her  entrance,  and  was  gazing  with  de- 
vouring eyes  at  the  door.  "  It  is  a  look  I  have  known,  I 
cannot  be  mistaken ;  he  is  in  want  of  food.  Monsieur  must 
lie  down,  he  must  not  be  emotionne,  does  he  see?  I  mean, 
for  this  Monsieur  Jacques'  sake,  who  is  suffering.  It  is 
necessary  to  be  quiet  and  natural,  and  ruse  a  little,  to  per- 
suade him.  At  the  wrong  word  he  will  run  away.  Mon- 
sieur is  so  clever  to  make  projects — he  shall  think." 

She  stroked  the  boy's  rough  hair  back  tenderly.  She 
thought  highly  of  the  brain  inside,  the  only  brain  in  the 
house  that  now  represented  Monsieur's.  Monsieur,  in  a 
case  like  this,  gave  his  whole  mind,  all  those  delicate  little  ; 
extra  faculties  which  he  possessed  and  would  always  use 
to  meet  the  claims  of  that  high  thing,  real  misfortune. 
Philip  or  his  uncle  at  this  juncture,  ingenious  as  they  were, 


THE    FETE      .  553 

^ould  have  hesitated,  she  was  certain, — plunged,  shown 
hyness  or  sharpness,  failed  to  grasp  the  materials,  and 
;iost  probably  lost  the  game.  Her  own  eagerness  was 
lost  innocently  betrayed  while  she  pleaded,  and  anyone 
lUt  Antoine  might  have  marked  an  undue  interest,  even  for 
ine  acting  in  his  cause  and  in  that  of  charity ;  but  she  was 
afe  with  him,  and  doubtless  knew  it.  He  considered  a  min- 
[te,  lying  as  she  had  placed  him,  holding  her  wrist  with  his 
Dug  fingers.  He  looked  very  little  disturbed,  only  intent, 
k^hile  his  mind  felt  all  round  the  situation. 

"  That  is  nothing,"  he  said,  indicating  the  despised  bowl. 
'  Jacques  will  have  dinner  here  with  me,  because  Philippe 
las  forgotten  to  come." 

"Bien,"  said  Yvonne.    "But  Monsieur  is  tired,  hein?" 

"  Yes ;  very  tired  of  waiting,  and  hungry  a  little.  You 
vill  have  enough  for  two  ?  " 

"  Bien  siar."  Yvonne  invariably  provided  a  double  share 
or  her  foster-brother,  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  It  was  but 
.  matter  of  two  covers  instead  of  one.  It  was  all  ready — 
polling — excellent  meat  which  M.  Lucien  had  praised. 

"  I  will  eat  a  little  soufflee,"  reflected  Antoine.  "  Do  not 
eave  him  there  to  smell  it — go."    He  pushed  her. 

*■'  M.  Savigny "  said  Yvonne. 

"  M'en  fiche,"  said  Antoine,  still  with  that  pleasant  se- 
•enity  of  reflection. 

"  M.   Philippe "  said  Yvonne.     Antoine's  level  look 

lismissed  her.  Half  the  joke  of  it,  naturally — all  the  joke, 
n  short — was  that  Philip  should  find  everything  eaten 
rvhen  he  came. 

Antoine  explained  this  joke  to  Jacques  with  care.  "  He 
;aid  he  would  come,  but  he  hasn't,"  he  explained.  "  This 
is  the  New  Year." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Jacques. 

He  came  in  eating  a  crust  with  an  air,  and  stood  by  the 
door  as  though  quite  ready  to  retreat  again.  "  I  picked  it 
jp,"  he  said  of  the  bread,  posing  successfully  in  his  capacity 


554  SUCCESSION 

as   the   original.     He  bit   the  bread   a   trifle  too   eagferly, 
though,  for  the  part. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  any  nearer?  "  said  Antoine,  annoyed. 
"  I  can't  see  you  round  the  screen." 

"  I  can  see  you,"  said  Jacques.  "  You  look  as  comfort- 
able as  a  rabbit  in  a  bag."  He  wiped  his  mouth.  After  the 
bread  he  felt  better:  that  little  pose  had  been  a  bright 
idea.  He  marched  across,  still  soft-footed  as  a  cat,  though 
purposeful,  and  embraced  Antoine  in  a  careless  manner, 
both  sides  of  the  face.  It  was  exactly  what  Antoine  never 
could  forget  to  expect  of  Philip,  when  they  met  after  an 
interval,  and  what  Philip  never  did.  If  Yvonne  had  seen 
it,  she  would  have  been  successfully  reassured  as  to  their 
mutual  relations. 

"  Cher  Jacques,"  said  Antoine,  in  response.  "  That  is 
right.    Now  you  will  dine  with  me." 

"  Oh,  I've  dined,"  said  Jacques.  His  host's  face  of 
quickly  contained  disappointment  was  admirable.  Luckily 
the  light  was  good,  and  the  effort  not  wasted.  "  You're 
dining  very  late,"  said  Jacques  sheepishly.  "  I  don't  mind 
helping  if  it's  just  to  score  off  what's  his  name? — Paul." 

"  Philippe  will  be  extremely  annoyed,"  said  Antoine  ear- 
nestly. "  There  is  a  friend  he  has  called  Paul — Ostrowski. 
It  is  not  a  name  I  like  much." 

"  I  know  Ostrowski,"  said  Jacques,  peering  about  the 
darker  corners  of  the  room,  as  though  he  suspected  shame- 
ful secrets  concealed  among  Lucien's  immaculate  prop- 
erties. "  I  had  the  pleasure  of  killing  him — three  times 
over — at  the  rooms." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Antoine,  vastly  interested. 

"  Yes.     Stopped  his  blague — dirty  Russian." 
'    "  He  is  not  dirty,"  said  Antoine.     "  Philippe  killed  him 
once  this  afternoon.     They  had  an  assault-at-arms  down 
there." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jacques,  not  at  all  pleasantly. 

Conversation  remained  in  suspension,  because  Yvonne 
brought  the  dinner — Jacques'  expression  was  worth  study, 


THE    FETE  555 

as  she  laid  the  things  before  him.  Then  conversation 
sprang  up  again  on  Antoine's  side,  brilliant  and  irrepressi- 
ble. Jacques  could  not  stop  him,  partly  because  he  had  no 
time  to  spare  for  speaking,  partly  because  it  was  such  a  rare 
delight  to  hear  nonsense  again.  He  had  been  consider- 
ing and  contriving  with  desperate  cunning  for  a  week. 
They  were  days  on  which  he  did  not  care  to  look  back ;  and 
the  best  of  the  gosse  was  that  he  could  be  trusted  to  be 
incurious.  Jacques  did  not  believe  that  talking  tired  An- 
toine  either,  for  all  that  pretty  girl's  warning;  he  liked 
talking  himself  at  times,  when  he  was  not  hungry.  He  did 
once  interrupt  the  boy  in  full  tilt,  to  observe  that  he  was 
not  eating  much. 

"  Some  of  the  things  I  am  not  allowed,"  said  Antoine. 
"  Savigny " 

Jacques  intervened  again  with  an  improper  expression 
about  Savigny.  He  was  growing  excited  now,  with  good 
meat  and  wine.  He  took  wine,  though  with  moderation,  as 
though  a  trifle  afraid  of  it.  His  wet  boots,  which  he  had 
kicked  off  carelessly,  steamed  before  the  fire,  for  they  had 
been  snow-covered  when  he  left  the  streets.  He  stretched 
himself  cat-like,  his  gaunt  legs  extended,  happy  as  only  such 
as  Jacques  can  be  happy,  in  circumstances  that  cannot  last. 
It  was  very  natural,  since  he  felt  so  well  fed  and  magnificent, 
to  be  profane.  Antoine  did  not  reason  it  out  as  natural,  but 
he  laughed  at  the  expression.  When  he  laughed,  M.  Char- 
retteur  glanced  round  the  corner,  reached  a  hand,  and  pulled 
his  ear.  Then  immediately  reaching  with  the  other  hand  he 
snapped  the  violin-case  open,  extracted  the  violin,  and 
twanged  the  four  strings  lightly. 

"  About  time  for  the  entr'acte  to  begin,"  he  suggested. 
"  After  one  dinner  and  before  the  next." 

"  Shall  you  have  another  down  there  ? "  inquired  An- 
toine. 

"Down  where?  I  referred  to  your  brother  Paul's  din- 
ner.   There's  a  nice  bone  there  for  him,  and  a  little  salt." 


556  SUCCESSION 

"  Isn't  it  after  eight?  "  said  Antoine,  gazing  at  him  under 
his  lashes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jacques.  "  I'm  not  on  duty  to-night.  I've 
g-got  a  holiday."  He  twanged  the  strings  again,  using  An- 
toine's  best-beloved  like  a  banjo.  The  owner  watched  him 
unmoved. 

"  You  haven't  got  the  bow,"  he  observed. 

"  No.  I  sha'n't  play  it."  Jacques  cuddled  the  violin.  "  It 
is  a  little  beauty,  Antoine.  Do  you  know,  I  kept  it  for 
four  nights?  I  could  have  brought  it  back  before,  or  sent 
it  to  England.  I  kept  it  instead.  After  midnight  I  played, 
when  I  got  home;  drove  the  fellow  on  the  fifth  floor  fran- 
tic ;  row  with  the  proprietor,  and  all  that.  ...  I  s-say, 
you  haven't  got  your  own  case  now,  did  you  notice  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoine,  with  truth.  "  I  like  to  see  you  hold 
it,  Jacques.  You  might  have  kept  it  altogether.  I  can't 
play  now." 

"  So  I  told  that  doctor,  when  he  wanted  it.  Oh,  Lord, 
the  brute,  the  pestilent,  trampling  brute.  .  .  .  You  lie 
quiet,  little  one.  I  sha'n't  be  violent,  now  I've  fed.  You 
get  wrong  ideas  when  you're  hungry — did  you  know  that? 
I'd  have  knifed  him  with  pleasure,  that  day  on  the  stairs." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  good,"  said  Antoine,  lying  quiet 
at  command.  Jacques'  clenched  hands  were  hanging  harm- 
lessly by  him,  and  he  had  laid  the  violin  aside,  out  of  all 
danger. 

"  But  all  he  was  doing  was  killing  you,  eh  ?  Foul  time 
you've  had,  brutal,  intolerable.  I  couldn't  save  the  old 
man  for  you,  could  I  ?  I  sneaked  up  to  get  news  of  him 
once  or  twice,  but  there  was  nothing  good  to  send.  I  got 
that  thing  there  for  you,  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  had  to  get 
round  the  woman — took  some  time.  And  you  broke  down 
for  the  want  of  it,  while  I  was  smelling  round  that  hole !  " 

"  No,  no,  it  wasn't  that,"  said  Antoine  quickly.  Under 
the  other  artist's  eye,  he  blushed.  "  It  is  only  easier  to 
do  that — than  I  had  thought.  How  did  you  find  her  house, 
Jacques  ?  " 


THE    FETE  557 

"  Too  long  to  tell."  Jacques  gave  him  his  slow  smile. 
"  You'd  be  asleep  before  I'd  finished.  You're  blinking 
now.  Not  a  story  for  a  little  kid,  in  any  case.  Low  sort 
they  were,  the  worst :  I  saw  that  in  the  train.  Had  an 
idea  I  had  set  eyes  on  him  too,  even  then.  Next  day  I  saw 
the  papers,  and  a  little  thinking  settled  it.  He  was  a  regu- 
lar at  my  cafe,  do  you  see  ?  That's  why  his  handsome  face 
haunted  me.  Well,  I  thought  of  the  police  once,  but  they 
always  make  such  a  mess  of  things  if  they're  given  a 
chance.  I  thought  it  would  take  less  time  to  manage  it 
myself.  I  watched  my  chance,  after  playing,  and  followed 
my  beauty  home." 

"  And  stole  it,"  said  Antoine,  with  contentment.  He  had 
no  need  of  details,  Jacques  was  glad  to  see.  He  merely 
wished  to  know  in  addition,  had  the  man  played  it  himself? 
Jacques  could  reassure  him. 

"  Lord  no,  he  only  wanted  the  price.  Didn't  even  know 
its  value  till  the  papers  let  it  out,"  said  Jacques.  "  He  was 
waiting  to  sell  it." 

"  I  hate  him,"  said  Antoine  thoughtfully.  "  Jacques — 
why  didn't  he  know  you  in  the  train?" 

"  Because,  though  I  am  stuck  in  front  of  them  for  hours 
down  there,  most  of  them  never  look  at  me.  Not  the  same 
as  a  concert,"  added  Jacques.  "  At  eating-places  it's  the 
m-music  matters,  not  the  man." 

"  Sometimes  at  concerts "  said  Antoine,  and  paused. 

He  was  not  so  sure,  with  his  experience,  that  he  could  con- 
tradict the  jibe.     It  was  painful,  and  he  frowned  over  it. 

"  You're  getting  tired,"  said  Jacques,  drawing  in  his  feet 
hastily,  and  catching  at  his  boots.  "  I  shall  go  out  and 
smoke.  Paul  will  be  coming,  and  it  might  worry  you  if 
we  fought  here." 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  said  Antoine.  "  One  is  not,  in  bed. 
It  is  only  infernally  ennuyeux — about  that  you  can  say  the 
worst  words.  And  I  want  to  go  out  noiv  and  smell  the 
snow  round  the  park." 

"  I'll  take  you,  shall  I  ?  "  said  Jacques,  rising  obligingly. 


558  SUCCESSION 

"  No !  Do  not  touch  me !  "  He  warded  with  a  hand,  then 
added  in  a  shaken  tone:  "  I  do  not  know  why  for  two  days 
I  have  been  like  that." 

"  What  are  they  going  to  do  with  you  ?  "  said  Jacques, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"Who?" 

"  The  Lemaures,  of  course.  Throw  you  away  ?  You're 
useless,  aren't  you?"    His  tone  was  rough. 

"  Oh  no.  I  have  written  a  quintet.  Ribiera  has  got  it," 
said  Antoine. 

Jacques  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed — a  healthy 
school-boy's  laugh  that  reached  Yvonne  demurely  darning 
in  the  kitchen  and  made  her  smile. 

"  On  s'amuse,  sans  M.  Philippe,"  she  thought. 

"  Ribiera  likes  it,"  said  Antoine  hastily.  '*  Wait — I  will 
show  you." 

Jacques  waited  as  directed,  grinning.  Antoine  searched 
up  and  down  the  bed,  and  unearthed  a  crumpled  sheet  of 
paper.  "  Tenez !  "  he  said  triumphantly.  "  He  wrote  that 
for  me,  to-day." 

Jacques,  standing  erect,  read  the  note. 

"  Monsieur, — Your  haste  to  endorse  the  news  of  your 
actual  indisposition  leaves  me  inconsolable.  Without  your 
aid  I  am  naturally  lost ;  for  the  inferior  insects  that  infest 
the  town,  as  you  trouble  yourself  to  hint,  cannot  well  supply 
your  place.  There  is  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  erase  the 
programmes  promised,  and  offer  my  sole  self  as  sacrifice  to 
a  public  which  has  hitherto  clamoured  for  you.  Will  you 
accept,  in  bed,  my  heartfelt  sympathy,  and  the  expression 
of  my  consistent  esteem  and  admiration. 

"Ribiera." 

Beneath  was  written: 

"  Your  work,  which  is  ingenious,  remains  unplayable.  It 
is  at  your  disposal  to  correct  if  you  prefer." 


THE    FETE  559 

Jacques'  long  frame,  straight  during  the  body  of  the 
letter,  twisted  rapturously  at  the  postscript. 

"  You  hold  him,  mon  gosse,"  he  said,  tweaking  Antoine's 
hair  with  a  powerful  finger  and  thumb.  "  At  your  dis- 
posal! If  you  prefer!  Oh,  the  s-s-snake!  You  see  what 
he'll  do,  of  course?  He'll  correct  it,  leave  a  blank  on  the 
programme,  and  grimace  his  thanks  as  author  at  the  end. 
Oh,  he's  done  as  bad  as  that,  twenty  times.  You  can't 
trust  him  a  step,  ever." 

"  Jacques !  He  is  not  to !  You  must  go  and  fetch  it ! 
You  must  go — don't  laugh." 

Jacques  was  laughing,  as  though  laughter  did  him  good. 
He  held  the  sheet  out  of  Antoine's  reach,  hampered  as  he 
unfairly  was  by  the  prostrate  position,  and  collapsed  side- 
ways into  his  chair  again. 

"  Can't  you  hear  him  hiss  through  every  phrase  ? "  he 
crowed.     "  It's  glorious." 

"  He  likes  it,"  Antoine  persisted.  "  Jacques,  it  is  not 
amusing,  really.     Voyons — let  me  read." 

He  read  it  aloud  to  Jacques,  weighing  on  every  sentence 
admiringly.  In  mere  "  politeness,"  not  to  mention  style  of 
composition,  Ribiera  the  courtier  manifestly  outdid  him. 
Even  with  Philip's  skilled  aid,  Antoine  could  never  have 
thought  of  such  words. 

"  I  told  him  I  was  in  bed,"  he  interjected  at  one  point ; 
and  at  another:  "I  did  not  say  insects — that  is  a  wrong 
word."  Jacques  twisted  in  his  seat  with  appreciation 
throughout  the  performance. 

"  I  know  the  sort  of  insect  you  mean,"  he  said,  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  "  Oh,  you  are  a  rabbit,  little  one — a  little  rabbit 
in  his  hands.  And  yet  you've  caught  him,  pinched  him, 
that's  the  joke.   I  sha'n't  get  over  this." 

"  I  have  not  caught  him,"  said  Antoine,  getting  troubled. 
"  Jacques,  see,  I  am  tired  to  write  again.  You  go  to  him 
to-morrow  and  explain.    Tell  him  I  want  it  back,  now." 

"  That's  the  way,"  Jacques  assented,  feeble  with  much 
mirth.    "  You  know  all  the  dodges."    He  took  notes  obedi- 


56o  SUCCESSION 

ently  of  what  he  was  desired  to  say.  "  You  of  all  people," 
he  murmured.  "  All  right,  Antoine ;  I  suppose  the  dinner 
was  too  much  for  me.  If  I  had  known  what  you  were 
holding  over,  I  wouldn't  have  taken  wine.  I'll  j-just  say 
you  sent  me,  shall  I?  Sent  me  along  like  a  lackey.  And 
I'm  to  fetch  it? — rather.  Oh,  it's  a  chance  like  I  never  had, 
this.  I'll  drive  a  bargain  for  you  will  surprise  him,  when 
it's  over.  S-serve  him  right."  He  caught  Antoine's  eyes, 
fixed  on  him  anxiously.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Don't  mind 
me.    I'm  drunk." 

He  rose  unsteadily  at  the  end.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he 
was  drunk :  not  so  much  with  the  wine,  as  with  the  warmth 
and  welcome  extended  to  him,  the  unlimited  chance  the 
boy's  society  offered  him  to  be  comfortable  and  foolish, 
and,  carelessly  dropped  in  at  the  end,  the  sweet  surprise 
of  this  news,  promising  at  once  Antoine's  glory,  Ribiera's 
discomfiture,  and  a  new  glimmering  possibility  in  life  for 
him.  Jacques'  tongue  had  already  been  of  use  to  him,  and 
he  had  not  lived  through  so  many  vicissitudes  without  know- 
ing how  to  turn  any  chance  that  came  to  his  profit.  If 
nothing  else  came  of  the  interview  with  Ribiera  but  a  little 
fun,  it  would  be  well  worth  it,  considering  how  he  had  been 
treated. 

He  stood  now  before  the  boy,  aware  of  a  reeling  brain  as 
he  recovered  from  his  surfeit  of  mirth,  aware  of  a  thou- 
sand prosaic  difficulties  waiting  to  attack  him,  as  soon  as 
he  passed  beyond  the  magic  circle  of  this  room,  aware  lastly 
of  the  boy's  confidence,  and  the  tacit  trust  of  his  regard. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Jacques,  frowning  with  narrowed  eyes, 
resting  a  hand  for  support  upon  the  chair.  "  The  jest's  fin- 
ished. There's  little  amusement  in  it,  really.  Just  say 
you're  not  vexed  with  me,  little  innocence." 

"  How  vexed  ?  "  asked  Antoine,  not  shrinking  from  his 
hand.     "Will  you  take  the  violin?" 

"  No.  It's  yours — just  like  you.  That's  why  I  kept 
it  by  me,  really.  Wh-what  are  those  cigarettes?  Paul's? 
He  touched  a  box. 


THE    FETE  561 

"  Philippe's,"  said  Antoinc,  glancing  drowsily,  and  M. 
Charretteur  helped  himself.  "  Papa  brought  them,  from 
Egypt,  once,"  he  roused  himself  to  explain.     "  Jacques." 

"Hein?"  Jacques,  who  still  had  a  hand  upon  him, 
though  he  was  toying  with  the  cigarette,  turned  his  head. 

"  In  February,  when  I  am  well,  I  am  going  with  papa 
to  America." 

A  pause.    "  All  right.    So  am  I." 

"  You  are  not." 

"  I  tell  you,  Fve  often  thought  of  it.    I  shall  come." 

"  You  will  not.  You  stay  here,  in  Paris,  to  play.  I  want 
you  to." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  are  French :  a  man  to  play  French  music, 
in  France;  and  I  love  those." 

"  You're  French,  every  inch  of  you,"  said  Jacques,  nip- 
ping the  cold  cigarette  in  his  white  teeth.  "  Curse  your 
father." 

"  Yes,  I  am.    The  music  is.    I — cannot  help  it." 

"  Your  father  ?  No,  you  can't,  you're  right.  Good-night, 
baby.  Go  to  by-by,  hein?  Pm  going."  The  hand  upon 
Antoine  dropped.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  thing  was 
good  enough,"  said  Jacques. 

"  It  is,"  said  Antoine,  with  serious,  sleepy  conviction. 
He  spoke  to  a  friend  and  fellow-worker  of  his  race,  in 
confidence ;  so  he  may  be  forgiven,  at  least  by  those  who 
create.    Jacques,  who  forgave  him  easily,  departed  smiling. 


CHAPTER  XX 

savigny's  task 

When  Philip  came  in,  decidedly  late,  he  found  a  young 
man  in  the  kitchen,  smoking  with  Yvonne.  The  shock  to 
his  British  prejudices  can  easily  be  conceived.  For  Yvonne 
v^as  the  pink  of  propriety,  noted  for  her  dainty  fastidious- 
ness in  the  matter  of  the  society  in  which  she  mixed ;  and 
beyond  this,  she  was  in  some  sense  the  Edgells'  property. 
History  would  have  to  be  followed  to  account  for  this 
theory,  as  held  by  Philip ;  but  it  may  be  sufficient  to  allude 
to  the  facts  that  Yvonne's  mother  nursed  him,  when  a  deli- 
cate baby,  with  notable  success,  and  that  he  and  Yvonne  had 
slapped  one  another  and  scuffled  through  their  early  years 
in  an  almost  intimate  fashion.  They  had  not  done  so  very 
recently,  it  must  be  admitted;  and  if  a  scuffle  occurred, 
Yvonne  now  invariably  got  the  upper  hand.  Philip  did 
not  commonly  interfere  with  her;  least  of  all  did  he  think 
of  doing  so  in  the  innumerable  incidents,  all  very  brief, 
connected  with  grooms,  gardeners,  electricians  and  the  like, 
which  had  proved  Yvonne  in  the  common  judgment,  for 
three  years  past,  to  be  fascinating  but  flinty-hearted.  His 
aunt,  he  knew,  despaired  of  marrying  her,  she  had  shown 
such  a  store  of  cynical  indifference  to  the  best  chances  the 
district  could  provide.  It  seemed  likely  that  she  had  fixed 
her  mind  on  dressing  St  Catherine's  hair,  and  her  ability 
was  such  that  no  saint  with  a  grain  of  coquetry  left  could 
have  refused  her  offices.  She  was  admirably  capable,  thor- 
oughly trained,  resourceful  and  discreet;  and  she  had  in 
addition  to  her  natural  cleverness  a  touch  of  art  which  her 
562 


SAVIGNY'S    TASK  563 

mistress  had  let  no  chance  slip  of  cultivating.  She  was  a 
maid  among  maids — but  she  was  something  better,  as  An- 
toine's  close  confidence  in  her  showed.  She  adored  music, 
and  seized  every  opening  a  musical  household  afforded  of 
improving  the  taste.  She  was  as  keen  a  critic  as  Madame's 
self,  and  even  M.  Lucien  had  recognised  in  her  a  consid- 
erable capacity  for  his  art,  though  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
would  ever  have  discovered  it,  had  she  happened  to  be 
plain. 

Now,  behold,  this  star  of  prudence  and  purity  had  sunk. 
Though  it  is  well  known  that  a  short  stay  in  Paris  may 
temporarily  derange  the  equilibrium  of  the  expatriated 
Frenchwoman,  Philip  could  not  have  credited  such  a  com- 
mon proceeding  on  Yvonne's  part,  had  he  not  seen.  On 
the  table  before  the  young  man,  who  was  making  himself 
so  comfortable  in  the  absence  of  the  heads  of  the  house- 
hold, stood  a  cup  of  excellent  strong  coffee,  steaming.  An- 
other scent  emanated  from  him  too,  a  scent  strangely  like 
that  of  Philip's  choicest  cigarettes,  rashly  left  in  Antoine's 
room.  Yvonne,  smiling  her  prettiest,  was  half  sitting  on  the 
table,  her  idle  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  Philip's  half-darned 
sock  upon  the  chair  she  had  deserted.  Her  fascinated  eyes 
were  on  the  tempter's  as  he  talked  low  and  guardedly — 
whispering  almost.     It  was  an  awful  situation. 

"  Er — Yvonne,"  said  Philip  coldly.  "  Here  is  Dr.  Bronne. 
I'd  like  my  supper  in  the  study,  and  you  might  bring  a 
cup  of " 

He  was  unexpectedly  disturbed  from  the  rear;  for  his 
companion,  who  was  en  grande  tenue  and  very  elegant, 
placed  Philip  gently  aside  and  came  past  him. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Bronne's  soft  tone.  "  How  are  you, 
Jacques?  A  happy  New  Year."  He  laid  a  hand  on 
Yvonne's  visitor's  shoulder  from  behind. 

The  young  man  unwound  his  legs,  grinned  and  replied 
not  inaptly,  stammering  a  trifle.  Philip  recoiled  and  gazed 
at  him.     Conviction  entered  him  swiftly,  but  little  reassur- 


564  SUCCESSION 

ance.  What  was  the  fellow  doing  in  his  uncle's  kitchen, 
with  his  aunt's  maid,  anyhow? 

"  Aren't  you  smart,"  said  the  kitchen  visitor,  looking  the 
doctor  up  and  down.  "  I  s-say,  we've  had  no  correct  in- 
troduction. Informal  a  bit,  that's  what  it  was  last  time." 
His  thumb — a  vulgar  trick — indicated  Philip. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Bronne  again,  and  introduced  them  beau- 
tifully. 

"  You  know  my  brother,  I  think,"  said  Philip,  disgusted, 
looking  away  from  Jacques  and  slightly  down, 

"  Nearly  missed  him  again,  on  my  conscience,"  said 
Jacques.    "  N-not  quite,  this  time,  thanks  to  Mademoiselle." 

"You  saw  Antoine?"  said  Bronne. 

"  Yes.  Apropos,  you'd  better  trot  and  see  how  he's 
bearing  it.    Get  to  your  trade." 

"  I  have  no  trade  to-night.  Nor  have  you,  Jacques. 
You're  on  holiday." 

"  Long  holiday,"  said  Jacques.  "  A  bit  prolonged,  selon 
moi."    He  tossed  the  end  of  Philip's  cigarette  into  the  fire. 

"You're  all  right,  though,"  said  Bronne,  the  medical 
eye  running  over  him. 

"  Liberty  suits  me,"  retorted  Jacques.  "  Equality,  and 
so  forth.     Why  don't  you  follow  me,  eh  ?  " 

"Out  of  the  window?"  Bronne  laughed.  "I'll  think 
about  it,  thanks.  In  a  new  year  anything  may  happen, 
mayn't  it  ? "  Jacques  gave  him  a  sharp  glance  sidelong. 
There  was  a  contained  vigour  and  confidence  about  the 
gentle  Bronne  that  had  already  surprised  Philip,  and  which 
made  Jacques  suspicious.  He  liked  to  assert  that  the  young 
superintendent  was  under  Savigny's  heel,  but  he  had  never 
really  thought  so.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  envied  his  easy 
independence  of  judgment,  while  mocking  his  docility. 

"Come  into  my  room,  won't  you?"  said  Philip,  at  this 
point,  in  an  ungracious  mutter,  and  shouldered  past  the 
pair.    "  Bring  a  light,  Yvonne." 

His  guests  followed  him,  though  Jacques  at  least  would 
fain  have  s^tayed  by  the  fire,  with  that  pleasant  girl  whom 


SAVIGNY'STASK  565 

Antoine's  brother  ordered  about  so  carelessly.  He  glanced 
at  Yvonne  in  passing,  but  her  eyes  were  cast  down  and 
her  hands  busy.  So  he  merely  picked  up  the  lamp  she  had 
prepared,  and  carried  it  for  her  into  the  garret  room. 

Here  he  preserved  the  courtesies,  according  to  his  ideas, 
by  subjecting  the  place  to  a  preliminary  tour  and  scrutiny, 
before  he  sat  down.  Jacques,  in  new  quarters,  had  this 
somewhat  animal  custom,  to  which  his  friends  were  used. 
It  seemed  in  origin  to  be  more  instinctive  caution  in  life 
than  curiosity. 

"  Devout,  by  Jove,"  he  said  agreeably,  as  he  spied  about 
the  walls  with  his  short-sighted  eyes.  He  regarded  a  small 
crucifix  attached  above  the  bed,  a  sprig  of  mistletoe  stuck 
through.  The  mistletoe  was  withered  slightly ;  the  half-tar- 
nished silver  of  the  figure  glittered  faintly  in  the  light  from 
the  lamp  by  the  door.  It  was  not  a  thing  the  incurious 
would  have  noticed,  for  it  was  shadowed  and  concealed 
by  one  of  the  odd  angles  of  the  little  apartment. 

"  That's  Antoine's,"  said   Philip.     "  This  is  his  room." 

"  I  b-beg  his  pardon,"  said  Jacques,  and  sat  down  upon 
the  bed.  The  conversation  seemed  slain  for  a  period ;  then 
Philip  apologised  to  his  own  guest,  whom  he  had  placed  in 
the  arm-chair,  for  the  delay. 

"  It's  you  that  are  in  need,  I  think,"  said  Bronne.  "  If 
you  will  excuse  me,  Edgell,  I'll  go  to  the  little  one  a  moment. 
Better  now  than  later.     I  shall  not  stay  long." 

Philip,  supposing  he  had  business  for  Savigny,  could  not 
retain  him.  He  and  Jacques  were  in  consequence  left 
tcte-a-tete,  and  stared  past  one  another.  From  the  kitchen 
came  a  soft  clatter,  and  light  steps.  Philip  glanced  frown- 
ing in  that  direction,  and  a  little  formality  omitted  occurred 
to  Jacques. 

"  I  ought  to  say  I  ate  your  supper,"  he  remarked  of  a 
sudden.    "  That  might  account  for  the  delay." 

"  Oh,"  said  Philip.  "  Well,  I  daresay  she'll  find  some- 
thing." 


566  SUCCESSION 

"  Hard  on  her,  rather,"  said  Jacques.  "  It  might  be 
fairer,  mightn't  it,  if  I  went  to  help." 

With  that,  it  suddenly  struck  Philip  that  he  was  being 
"  guyed  "  by  this  eccentric  acquaintance  of  Antoine's,  even 
as  Ribiera  had  guyed  him.  But  Charretteur  being  more  or 
less  of  his  own  age,  it  would  not  do.  Added  to  this, 
Jacques'  society  manners  were  contagious,  somehow.  Philip 
let  go,  tentatively,  a  portion  of  his  dignity,  and  did  not 
regret  its  going. 

"  Did  that  fellow  meet  you — for  the  duel,  I  mean  ?  "  he 
said,  with  evident  subdued  eagerness. 

"  Never  thought  he  would,  but  he  did,"  said  Jacques. 
"  Pity  he  did,  for  him." 

"  You  didn't  kill  him,  I  say  ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  N-not  quite.  We  couldn't  finish,  you  see — ^they  inter- 
vened." 

"  The  police?  " 

"  Almost  as  bad,"  said  Jacques.  "  The  field  we  chose  was 
private  property,  and  the  local  authorities  disturbed  us. 
However,  he'd  had  enough,  more  than  he  came  out  for.  He 
won't  trouble  Paris  again  for  a  bit.  ...  I  s-say — ^how 
did  you  know  of  it  ?  " 

Philip  explained.  "  On  my  honour,  that's  good,"  said 
Jacques,  giving  his  penetration  its  due.  Philip,  gratified, 
let  a  little  more  dignity  go. 

"  Beastly  fools,  the  police?  "  he  suggested.  Jacques  made 
a  shrugging  gesture  with  his  entire  frame,  outward  to 
the  finger-tips,  eminently  expressive.  The  police  of  Paris 
were  thereby  dismissed. 

"  Have  a  cigarette,"  said  Philip.  He  carefully  avoided 
saying  "  another  " ;  but  Charretteur  took  the  trick  by  re- 
marking that  such  things  left  about  the  rooms  were  a  temp- 
tation to  the  children. 

"  Good,  they  are,"  he  added.  "  Your  father's  got  taste. 
Been  pinking  Ostrowski,  the  gosse  tells  me."  Philip,  re- 
sponding at  some  length,  implied  Ostrowski  was  easy  game ; 


SAVIGNY'STASK  567 

and  suggested,  with  an  inward  tremor  of  excitement,  that 
Jacques  should  meet  him  at  the  school. 

"  I've  had  to  drop  my  subscription,"  said  Jacques. 
"  Tant  pis.  It  works  the  devil  off  a  man,  better  than  any- 
thing." Philip  was  humiliated;  and  simultaneously  liked 
and  respected  him  more. 

"Extraordinary  room,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  observing  the 
persistent  rambles  of  Jacques'  eyes. 

"Just  like  him,"  said  Jacques.  "Pious,  is  he?  Of 
course,  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  My  grandfather  w^as  too,"  said  Philip. 

"  Yes,  he  would  be,"  said  Charretteur ;  and,  in  his  mo- 
mentary gravity,  he  seemed  old.  He  did  not  condole  with 
Philip  on  his  loss ;  Philip  did  not  observe  the  omission.  He 
may,  at  the  moment,  have  felt  Jacques  too  near. 

"  Well,"  said  Jacques.  "  I  must  go,  Edgell.  You'll  want 
to  talk  to  Bronne." 

"  Oh,  stop  and  tell  us  about  it,"  coaxed  Philip.  "  We 
can't  put  all  the  story  together — my  father  and  I  were  try- 
ing to-day." 

Jacques  laughed  pleasantly,  though  shortly,  showing  the 
tips  of  his  white  teeth ;  but  he  did  not  directly  refuse, 
though  his  eyes  fixed  the  half-open  kitchen  door. 

"  There's  the  reward,  too,"  said  Philip.  "  You  know, 
you  ought  to  clairn  it." 

"  Go  cadging  to  the  police?    Not  I." 

"  Well,  you  found  it,  didn't  you?  " 

"  That's  the  question,"  said  Jacques.  He  smoked,  still 
looking  at  the  door. 

"  Bronne's  just  as  keen  as  I  am,"  said  Philip,  mistaking 
the  nature  of  his  anxiety.  "  Antoine  put  him  au  courant, 
one  of  the  first." 

In  the  end,  Jacques  was  persuaded  to  recount  his  ad- 
venture, while  Philip  ate  his  extemporised  supper.  It  can- 
not be  denied  that  Jacques  exaggerated  grossly,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  complications  and  triumphs  of  the  undertaking, 
seeing  his  chance  with  such  an  inexperienced  auditor,  al- 


568  SUCCESSION 

ready  inclined  to  admire  him.  He  made  the  best  of  his  op- 
portunities at  least,  until  Dr  Bronne  slipped  in  and  joined 
them;  whereupon  he  drew  in  his  superfluous  canvas  with 
remarkable  skill  and  agility,  and  sailed  less  gallantly  in  con- 
sequence. As  it  was,  the  doctor  pulled  him  up  several  times 
over  details,  and  towards  the  end  the  formerly  fluent  ac- 
count became  rather  of  the  nature  of  a  sparring  match  be- 
tween the  pair. 

"  All  right,  if  you  know  best,"  said  Jacques,  turning  sulky 
without  warning.  "Finish  for  M.  Paul  there,  won't  you? 
— he's  listening." 

"  You  never  stole  a  violin  anyhow,"  he  blurted  at  a  later 
stage.  "  You  haven't  the  spunk."  He  seemed  to  turn 
boyish  rapidly,  in  manner  and  expression,  when  he  sat  thus 
in  congenial  company. 

There  was  a  certain  portion  of  the  history,  highly  racy 
and  allusive  on  Jacques'  part,  concerning  the  lady,  that 
Philip  did  not  fully  understand.  It  was  the  more  annoying 
to  him  that  Bronne  obviously  did,  though  he  watched  his 
cigarette,  with  his  demure,  unmoved  expression,  while  it 
proceeded.  It  was  evident  even  to  Philip,  however,  that 
the  hero  wished  them  to  ascribe  his  success  largely  to  his 
experience  and  skill  in  the  manipulation  of  this  fair 
Delilah,  though  the  steps  of  the  process  were  less  clear  to 
follow. 

"Women  are  useful,  aren't  they?"  Bronne  commented 
softly  once. 

"  There  was  nothing  wrong  with  the  bargain,"  ruffled 
Jacques. 

"  Wasn't  there  ?    Pardon,  Charretteur ;   go  on." 

Jacques  went  on,  but  the  observation  seemed  to  rankle. 
Its  immediate  result  was,  that  the  lady,  hitherto  taking  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  drama,  dropped  out  of  the  story; 
the  events  of  which  became  in  consequence  a  trifle  mirac- 
ulous, as  though  Providence  lurked  behind  them,  for 
Jacques,  at  every  stage.  It  had  been  thieving  made  easy, 
though  the  hero  made  the  best  of  his  part  in  it.    Bronne  re- 


SAVIGNY'STASK  569 

called  the  existence  of  the  lady,  with  an  astonishing  failure 
of  tact,  exactly  when  Yvonne  happened  to  enter  the  room  to 
collect  the  plates.  Dr  Bronne  seemed  really  dissatisfied  in 
his  conscience  as  to  what  that  person  had  gained  by  the 
transaction. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Jacques,  getting  up,  when  Yvonne, 
with  a  faintly  disdainful  expression  on  her  charming 
features,  had  departed.     "  Do  you  f-fight  ?  " 

"  Not  now,"  said  Bronne.  "  We  decided  it  is  good  exer- 
cise, but  a  bad  example." 

"Who  decided?"  gasped  Jacques. 

"  Savigny  and  I,  in  conclave." 

"  Oho !  You  caught  it  when  the  patron  returned,  did 
you?  " 

"  He  conducted  an  inquiry.  He  could  not  see  the  neces- 
sity." 

Jacques  was  silent,  looking  sulky.  "  Wh-what  do  you 
complain  of?"  he  broke  out.  "She  was  a  thorough  bad 
lot,  anyhow." 

"  Injustice,"  Bronne  said  lightly.  "  The  usual  thing.  I 
know  your  point  of  view,  though,  very  w'ell.    Savigny " 

"  What  point  of  view  ?  " 

"  Yours,  and  his.  That  women  are  there  for  us  to  make 
what  we  can  of  them.  The  world's  full  of  the  assump- 
tion." 

"  They  make  w^hat  they  can  of  us,"  growled  Jacques. 

"  Oh  yes.    And  w-ho  has  the  advantage  ?  " 

"  She  was  playing  false  to  the  other  man,  anyhow. 
She " 

"Are  you  sure  she  owed  him  anything?" 

Jacques  shifted  ground.  "  She  knew  I'd  no  money,"  he 
said,  adding,  as  Bronne  was  about  to  speak :  "  She — she'll 
find  someone  else." 

"  Who,  you  hope,  will  pay  your  debt  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Bronne,"  said  Jacques.  "  What's  come  over 
you  I  can't  think,  harping  on  all  this,  and  nobody  inter- 
ested."    His  thumb  indicated  Philip  again,  who  was  far 


570  SUCCESSION 

from  uninterested,  as  his  face  showed.  "  It  isn't,"  pro- 
ceeded Jacques,  "  as  if  you  knew  what  you  were  talking 
about." 

"  Pardon,  Edgell ;  I'm  a  bore,"  said  Bronne.  "  It  may 
be  that  Savigny  and  I  were  on  the  subject  to-day." 

"  Theories !  "  broke  out  Jacques,  in  triumph.  "  Talking 
away,  tucked  safe  out  of  action,  just  like  two  fat  monks. 
I  know."  He  slid  a  shaft  of  scorn  at  the  doctor  sidelong, 
for  he  was  shy  of  facing  him. 

"  Our  profession "  began  Louis,  who  seemed  to  be 

enjoying  himself,  where  he  lay  in  his  half-dark  chair. 

"Curse  your  profession!  Priests,  that's  what  you  are! 
P-priests !  " 

"  Thanks,  Charretteur :  I'll  tell  him.  Only,  I  assure  you, 
your  point  of  view  and  his  are  one." 

"  I'm  going,"  announced  Jacques,  getting  up,  disgusted. 
"  Anyhow,  I  haven't  got  much  out  of  the  business  myself, 
have  I?  " 

"  You've  got  a  capital  story,"  said  Dr  Bronne,  in  a  con- 
gratulatory manner,  rising  also,  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
He  added  easily :    "  Antoine  is  grateful,  too." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  "  said  Jacques,  his  sallow 
cheek  reddening. 

"  Did  you  not  want  to  be  reminded  ?  I  saw  him  a  few 
minutes  since.  He  assured  me  he  had  had  a  very  good 
fete." 

"He  did?  Assured  you?"  A  pause.  "  Wh-what  did 
you  say?  " 

"  I  said  mine  had  been  good  also,  since  it  seemed  he 
wished  to  know.  He  has  an  idea  that  Savigny  allows  me 
no  recreation,  which  is  evidently  not  the  case." 

"  What  did  he  say  after  that?  "  said  Jacques,  avoiding  his 
eyes  in  a  far  more  marked  manner,  now  he  was  upright. 

"  Little.     He  was  nearly  asleep." 

"  Why  did  you  stop  so  long  then  ?  "  said  Jacques  suspi- 
ciously. 


SAVIGNY'STASK  571 

"  Details  of  the  trade,"  said  Louis,  looking  at  him,  with 
singular  intentness.    "  It  could  not  amuse  you  to  know." 

"  Why  you  should  make  such  a  blessed  mystery  of 
it "  Jacques  burst  out.    "  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  case,"  said  Bronne,  ever  more  gentle.  "  I 
act  for  Savigny  simply,  since  he  is  engaged ;  taking  ob- 
servations for  him,  do  you  see,  of  a  delicate  machine  in 
which  we  are  all  professionally  interested." 

"  Was  he  bad,  then  ?  " 

"  No.    I  really  think  he  is  better  a  little." 

"  Oh.    Will  you  stop  the  night,  Bronne  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,  no.  There  are  plenty  besides  me  to  take  care 
of  him." 

"  Savigny,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  w-wish  it  was  you,"  said  Jacques  desperately,  and 
turned  on  his  heel.    "  Good-night,  Paul — Philippe." 

Meanwhile,  a  talented  company  met  by  Savigny's  fire- 
side. They  were  so  brilliant,  indeed,  that  only  the  more 
practical  parts  of  the  conversation  can  be  dealt  with,  for  the 
scintillations  of  intimacy  escape  easily  the  most  eager  efforts 
to  portray.  Savigny  took  the  successive  appearance  of  his 
uninvited  guests  very  calmly;  the  chairs  were  just  suffi- 
cient, and  the  lady  patient  so  charming,  that  Duchatel  was 
led  to  give  her  by  stages  his  almost  undivided  attention,  and 
Madame  Lemaure  had  to  fall  back  for  her  conversation 
and  contradiction  upon  the  doctor. 

"  If  I  had  the  least  rendered  account  to  myself  of  what 

I  was  disturbing "  she  preluded  piteously,  gazing  at  the 

patient  across  the  hearth. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Savigny.  "  My  main  object  was  to 
baffle  Louis — and  there's  Victor  kindly  finishing  the  opera- 
tion." 

"  Never,"  said  Madame,  deeply  interested.  "  Is  she 
Bronne's  patient,  then?" 


572  SUCCESSION 

"  No — mine.  That's  the  point.  He's  no  earthly  right 
to  her." 

"And  they  will  get  together?"  Madame  gently  shook 
her  head.  "  I  have  known  it,"  she  murmured.  "  Obstinate 
cases." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Attraction.  Might  I  venture? — baffling  is  not  the  cure. 
Nor  competition." 

Savigny  grinned.  "  Bronne  has  no  originality.  I  told 
her.    A  mere  chameleon,  he  is." 

"  Nor  backbiting.  My  poor  Raymond,  you  are  lost. 
Tell  me,  is  Mademoiselle  really  well  enough  to  go  ? " 

"  Seems  so,  doesn't  it?  "  said  Savigny.  "  Do  you  suspect 
her?" 

"  No — you.    I  do  so  feel  with  your  anxiety." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Cecile  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  it  remarked  so  often  that  you  need  a 
woman  here :  in  the  sanatorium  above  all.  There  must  be 
so  much  that  no  man  can  really  see  to — though  I  admit 
Bronne's  adaptability." 

"  You  think  I'd  let  him  stay  in  the  place  a  week  if  he 
took  to  that?    I'd  sooner " 

"  Less  emphasis,"  Cecile  murmured,  touching  him.  "  She 
looks  this  way.  Pretty  eyes  she  has — I  am  eprise  of  that 
almond  form.  ...  As  for  him,  no  girl  could  resist 
him  seriously.  As  you  have  so  often  declared,  he  has  all 
the  advantages — and  some  that  women  appreciate  more. 
How  did  you  dispose  of  him? — tell  me  that." 

"  When  you  wouldn't  have  him "  said  Savigny. 

"  Ah,"  she  murmured.  "  If  you  would  but  explain  your 
plots  a  little." 

" — I  sent  him  to  dine  with  his  aunt.  Unmarried  aunt, 
wealthy,  jealous:  fond  of  Louis.  He'd  better  keep  in  her 
good  graces,  as  he  knows." 

"  In  case  you  dismiss  him,  you  mean,"  said  Cecile.  "  But 
old  relations  always  come  round.  I'm  sure  you  would 
*  doter '  that  charming  girl.     How  nice  of  you,  Raymond." 


SAVIGNY'S    TASK  573 

Savigny  turned  to  her  husband,  markedly.  Cecile  lay 
in  her  low  chair,  her  slim  black  skirt  coiled  round  her  feet, 
the  silver  threads  that  looked  like  powder  faintly  glinting 
in  her  beautifully  ordered  hair.  She  was  turning  grey, 
successfully  but  rapidly,  and  pretty  as  her  face  and  form 
still  were,  she  disdained  any  artificial  concealment.  She 
was  glad  enough  to  rest  after  a  trying  day,  and  let  Lucien 
have  the  benefit  of  the  change  she  had  made  for  him.  She 
could  not  believe  that  moping  at  home  was  either  necessary 
or  advisable  in  his  case,  and  she  suspected  that  Raymond 
grasped  her  device,  by  his  unmoved  reception  of  the  party. 
So  lying,  she  smiled  across  at  the  patient  absently  at  inter- 
vals, for  she  liked  that  kind  of  girl.  Victor  was  launched 
on  musical  gossip:  proving  two  things,  that  his  partner 
was  tactful,  and  that  she  had  the  taste.  She  would  be 
sweet  as  a  doctor's  wife ;  and  if  there  should  be  a  child  in 
the  house — in  time — it  was  inevitable  that  the  lonely  chief, 
grey-faced,  grim  and  wild  as  he  looked  to-night,  should 
hold  the  centre  of  her  thoughts,  ousting  her  husband  even. 
Savigny  had  taken  his  friend's  death  very  hard:  he  had 
changed  and  aged  in  the  week — he  could  barely  look  at 
Lucien  yet,  she  could  see.  The  miserable  jealousy  of  a 
common  loss  was  between  them.  And  yet  that  morning, 
when  Savigny  broke  the  truly  crushing  news  about  the  boy, 
he  had  been  perfect  with  Lucien — wonderful.  He  was  in- 
teresting him  now,  in  spite  of  himself.  He  was  a  noble 
character. 

The  patient,  seeing  her  sit  so  charming  and  unoccupied, 
presently  rose  to  leave.  She  chose  her  minute  well,  if  her 
object  had  been  not  to  ofifend  M.  Duchatel,  but  merely  to 
disappoint  him.  She  passed  across  the  hearth,  and  standing 
in  front  of  Savigny,  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  I  cannot  say  all  I  wish  to  say,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  in 
this  company " 

"  You've  done  pretty  well,"  said  Savigny,  moving  his 
eyebrows.    His  patient  laughed  at  him. 

"  I  express  myself  imperfectly,"  she  said,  with  perfect 


574  SUCCESSION 

grace.  "  It  is  a  simple  thing  to  say  one  is  grateful,  but — and 
I  leave  to-morrow  early." 

"  Who  has  looked  out  the  train  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  Dr  Bronne  did,  very  kindly.  It  is  an  all-day  journey, 
to  my  home." 

"  A  journey  hurts  nobody/'  said  Savigny.  "  Stirs  the 
mind." 

"Is  he  not  pedantic?"  said  the  patient  to  Madame. 
"  Even  on  New  Year's  evening,  he  says  those  things.  Yet 
if  I  began  to  tell  you  how  kind  he  has  been,  and  what  a  dif- 
ferent life  I  look  forward  to  now " 

"  You  might  never  get  off  by  the  early  train  at  all.  And 
then  the  superintendent  would  have  to  find  you  another — 
the  following  day,"  Savigny  rose,  for  he  was  not  un- 
courteous  in  action,  however  rough  his  words.  "  In  the 
first  place,"  he  said,  "  everyone  has  a  right  to  the  best  life 
possible.  That  is  our  commonplace,  call  it  pedantry  if  you 
like.  Next,  I  help  people  only  in  condition  of  their  helping 
me,  so  there's  no  gratitude  to  be  considered  in  the  matter. 
Thirdly,  as  you  observe,  these  critics  sitting  round  knock 
rhetoric  on  the  head.  They'd  say  we  had  misplaced  a  sub- 
junctive if  we  tried  it." 

"  Finally "  said  the  patient,  looking  up  and  laughing 

through  her  pretty  eyes. 

"  Finally — life  is  not  long  enough  to  talk  when  things 
are  done.  Society  wits  like  Victor  there  do  that:  people 
of  sense  do  not.  If  you  tell  your  mother  that  to-morrow, 
you'll  do  me  a  real  service,  and  overbalance  the  obligation. 
Look  after  yourself,  my  dear.    Good-bye." 

" — And  she  could,  that's  the  bother  of  it,"  he  finished 
to  the  remaining  company,  dropping  into  his  chair  again, 
when  she  was  gone.  "  Only  a  fool  of  a  female  will  insist 
on  looking  after  her,  and  upset  all  my  work." 

"  Did  you  say  a  female  ?  "  said  Duchatel,  from  the  dis- 
tance where  he  sat  deserted. 


SAVIGNY'S    TASK  575 

After  that,  Victor  came  nearer,  and  the  exchange  became 
general. 

"  Why  did  you  really  come  ?  "  said  Savigny,  casting  his 
eyes  impartially  among  them.  "Silly  curiosity,  was  it? — 
or  a  bet?  " 

"  Lucien  and  I  quarrel  so  persistently  at  home,"  Madame 
began. 

"  Where  does  Victor  come  in  ?  "  interrupted  Savigny. 

"  I  forget,"  said  Victor.    "  What  is  my  excuse,  Cecile?  " 

"  I  forget,"  she  retorted.  "  But  at  least  you  have  not 
vi^asted  your  time,  so  far.  Those  moments  will  be,  for 
Mademoiselle,  an  unforgettable  experience." 

"  Hardly,"  Lucien  stirred  himself  to  observe.  "  Since 
she  had  no  idea  who  was  diverting  her.  Raymond  carefully 
dodged  his  second  name,  as  well  as  hers." 

"  I  had  forgotten  hers,"  murmured  Savigny.  "  Such  a 
lot  of  'em — every  day." 

"  Calm  yourself,  Victor,"  said  Cecile.  "  At  least  she  will 
remember  her  Paris  doctor  has  nice  friends.  I  overheard 
some  expressions,  while  I  attended  lately,  that  did  Raymond 
the  greatest  credit." 

"  Whatever  I  left  my  mother's  side  for,"  said  Victor,  "  it 
was  not  for  this." 

"  Was  your  mother  anxious  ?  "  said  Savigny. 

"  I  did  not  confess  I  was  visiting  you.  I  said  I  was  call- 
ing on  the  Lemaures." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  said — wait — must  you  really  know  ? — she  said, 
that  of  course  the  Lemaures  had  long  given  up  listening  to 
her  advice;   and  that  she  was  a  poor  old  woman." 

"  This  becomes  thrilling,  Lucien,"  said  Cecile.  "  Did 
she  go  further,  Victor  ?  " 

"  Much  further,  too  far  possibly.  I  need  not  pursue  it." 
An  interval,  all  waiting.  "  Mamma,  were  she  allowed  a 
voice,  would  opine  that  the  only  chance  for  that  boy  now 
was  to  get  him  right  away." 

"  Right  away  from  what  ?  " 


576  SUCCESSION 

"  My  dear  Savigny — from  the  Lemaures." 

"  And  to  what  ?  "  cried  Cecile, 

"  That  is  more  complicated.  To  a  succession  of  ad- 
dresses she  has  written  on  a  card.  To  Bordighera  for  a 
month.  Mamma  will  be  staying  at  the  Hotel  d'Europe; 
but  if  Lucien  prefers  it  there  is  a  cheaper  one  close  by. 
After  that  they  move  to  some  baths  she  has  had  recom- 
mended. Then  she  would  see  if  it  is  advisable  to  have  him 
in  Bourgogne.  He  will  be  perfectly  managed  all  the 
time " 

"  And  you  will  get  a  holiday.  My  poor  Victor,  to  think 
we  have  to  disappoint  you,  as  well  as  her." 

"  Mamma  expects  to  be  disregarded,"  said  Victor.  "  She 
expects  nothing  but  disappointment,  of  life.  But  she  has 
your  welfare  sincerely  at  heart  in  the  proposal." 

"  It  is  a  proposal,  then,"  said  Madame.  "  Serious, 
Victor?" 

"  Mamma  is  never  less  than  serious.  I  was  directed  to 
feel  the  way." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  She  is  too  amiable,"  said  Lucien, 
with  an  effort.  "  I  will  write."  Duchatel's  eyes  turned  on 
him,  and  Savigny's.  The  refusal  was  as  clear  in  his  face 
as  if  it  had  been  spoken.  That  section  of  the  conversation 
closed. 

Victor,  talking  alone,  had  been  listened  to  without  inter- 
ruption, amazing  in  that  society.  Two  at  least  were  still 
smiling  when  he  rose. 

"  You  need  not  go,"  Madame  protested.  "  Need  he, 
Raymond?  We  shall  fall  back  into  the  hospital  if  he  does. 
As  it  is,  I  scent  disinfectants  afar." 

Savigny  scowled  at  her,  but  was  not  roused  to  intervene. 

"  He  may  as  well  go,"  he  said.  "  There's  something  arti- 
ficial about  him.  He  adds  little  to  the  comfort  of  his  sur- 
roundings, really."  He  looked  slowly  upward  from  Victor's 
feet,  with  his  haggard  eyes.  When  the  eyes  reached  his 
face,  Duchatel  said,  with  pleading: 


SAVIGNY'STASK  577 

"It  is  finished  then?  We  are  to  lose  M.  Edgell?  De- 
cidedly? " 

The  doctor  nodded.  "  Was  he  of  use  to  you  ?  "  he  in- 
quired. 

"Of  use?     Since  May,  two  of  my  sonatas  are  selling." 

"  What  the  devil " 

"  Antoine  played  Victor's  works,"  said  Cecile  suavely, 
"  under  his  skilled  direction.    And  destroyed  his  own." 

"  Hey?  "  said  Savigny.  Lucien  looked  up  too.  Duchatel 
moved  on  a  step,  and  faced  her. 

"  I  beg  you,"  he  said  quietly,  "  not  to-night.  I  can  hardly 
yet  bear  to  reflect  how  far  I  may  be  answerable." 

"  Oh — voyons !  "  she  protested.     "  Not  that." 

"  Why  not?  It  is  but  a'part  of  the  unconscious  tyranny 
he  has  suffered.    At  least,  that  part  may  be  confessed." 

"  Not  to  me,"  she  said.  He  bowed,  and  moved  one  step 
more,  still  exquisitely  graceful  and  composed.  "  I  tell  you, 
he  has  been  pressing  forward  all  this  year,  and  I  devoting 
all  my  talents,  which  are  considerable,  to  crowding  him 
back.  Sulky,  if  you  will  believe  it,  at  his  pretension.  I 
sulked  still  when  he  put  this  last  piece  of  work  in  my 
hands.  And  then  to  see  him  score  in  spite  of  me,  and 
drop." 

"  Tell  him  to  be  artificial  again,"  Madame  entreated  the 
doctor.    "  This  will  never  do." 

"  My  dear  Victor,"  said  Lucien,  stirred  also  by  his 
fervour,  "  you  go  too  far.  You  acted  very  naturally  in 
repressing  the  boy." 

"  Naturally !  "  he  caught  up  the  word.  "  According  to 
my  nature,  hein?  That  is  what  I  am  saying.  Antoine's 
youth  annoyed  me:  whom  of  us  present  has  it  not  an- 
noyed? We  cannot  permit  it,  evidently.  He  is  not  to 
forestall  our  experience,  our  only  advantage.  Repress,  then 
— he  is  to  be  repressed.     Hein?" 

He  glared  the  eyeglass  upon  them  in  succession. 

"  I  plead  guilty,"  said  Savigny,  scratching  his  chin. 


578  SUCCESSION 

"  Sans  doute,"  said  M.  Lemaure.  "  It  seems  to  me,  he 
speaks  a  commonplace." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Victor  earnestly.  "  We  are  so  coinmon- 
place.  We  can  barely,  after  thirty,  admit  the  common 
phenomenon  of  youth.  Still  less  this — this  indecent  thing. 
Oh,  repress  it — repress !  "  With  another  wild  glare  round 
the  circle,  he  said  peacefully :   "  I  go." 

"  You  have  just  begun  to  interest  me,"  Savigny  re- 
marked. 

"  At  most,"  said  Lucien,  tenaciously  pursuing  his  own 
thread,  "  we  reproach  you  in  the  matter  with  some  secretive- 
ness.  Secretive,  Victor,  you  have  been.  It  was  our  right 
to  be  informed." 

"  My  dear  Lucien,  could  I  imagine  you  were  not 
aware " 

"  Well,  well.  The  boy  was  secretive  then.  I  suppose  it 
comes  to  that." 

"  All  production  is  secretive,"  remarked  the  doctor. 
"  Nothing  in  nature  sits  on  a  stage  to  produce.  With  chil- 
dren's productions,  it  is  a  byword." 

"  Victor  himself  has  two  or  three  curtains,"  said  Cecile. 

"  What  I  mean,"  said  Lucien,  annoyed  with  them,  "  is 
that,  by  one  means  or  another,  I  should  have  been  saved 
this  irregularity.  It  is  more  than  irregular — it  is  confus- 
ing. Had  it  not  been  for  Raymond  there  warning  me  just 
in  time,  I  should  have  learnt  the  whole  thing  from  Ribiera 
this  morning." 

"  Does  Ribiera  intend  to  perform  it  ?  "  said  Victor,  lift- 
ing his  brows. 

"  He  teased  Raymond  persistently  to  allow  him  the  boy 
for  an  hour  any  time,  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Antoine  with  nothing  in  his  hands,"  said  Cecile  pathet- 
ically. "  Antoine  with  merely  his  head,  Victor.  It  does 
confuse  us  naturally.  We  had  been  under  the  impression 
that  his  head  belonged  to  others,  at  present.  Was  it  not 
so  ?  " — to  Lucien. 

"  Cecile,  do  not  be  so  childish,"  was  the  answer  she  got. 


SAVIGNY'S   TASK  579 

"  But  it  was  amusing."  she  cried.  "  One  had  been  so 
amused.  Antoine  before  the  world  was  '  tordant,' — we 
enjoyed  him " 

'"  For  whom  do  you  speak?  "  snapped  Lucicn. 

"  Your  family — I  assist  their  case.  It  is  an  excellent  toy 
that  Raymond  there  has  broken,  our  favourite.    We  hoped 

to  play  with  it  all  this  year — and  now "     Very  subtly, 

and  for  an  instant  only,  her  features  reflected  Lucien's  look 
of  rather  rueful  vacancy,  really  approaching  to  that  of  a 
child  in  the  situation  she  described.  Victor  bit  his  lip— 
Savigny  grinned  discreetly.  M.  Lemaure  glanced  sharply 
at  her;  but  she  faced  him,  a  picture  of  languid  sweetness 
again. 

"  Why  she  is  in  this  carnival  mood,  I  cannot  say,"  he 
said,  mastering  his  annoyance,  turning  to  the  most  indif- 
ferent member  of  the  circle.  "  She  will  not  see  anything 
as  serious.  It  must  be  my  brother-in-law's  society,  Victor, 
that  drives  her  to  the  opposite  extreme." 

"  Is  he  serious  ?  "  said  Victor. 

"  Has  Edgell  been  up  ? "  snapped  Savigny  simultane- 
ously. 

"  He  is  more  than  serious — he  is  dull.  He  was  with  us 
for  an  hour  or  so  this  evening,  at  his  heaviest.  Even  Ce- 
cile,  who  inclines  to  spoil  him,  could  hardly  tolerate  him 
to-day." 

"  Jem  is  getting  restive,"  she  commented  quietly,  "  that 
is  all.  He  is  on  the  verge  of  flight,  and  scents  the  space 
afar.  I  told  him  one  could  see  it  in  his  face.  He  grows 
impatient  of  our  ways  at  such  times,  and  absent  rather." 

"  He  took  no  trouble  to  pretend  we  did  not  bore  him  to 
death,"  growled  Lucien. 

"  C'est  Qa,  we  do,"  she  assented.  "  He  is  essentially  un- 
civilised, Jem." 

"  Odd  he  should  own  such  a  civilised  product  as  the 
child,"  said  Duchatel. 

Savigny  broke  out.     "  That  is  nothing  but  Lucien's  var- 


58o  SUCCESSION 

nishing,  and  yours.  It  will  soon  drop  off,  when  he  gets 
back  to  natural  conditions." 

"  You  refer  to  idleness  ?  "  said  Victor,  having  pondered. 

"  No,  I  do  not,  Victor.  Nature  is  not  idle.  However, 
since  you  can  know  nothing  of  it,  I  will  not  keep  you."  He 
suddenly  extended  a  hand  to  the  young  man.  But  before 
Victor  could  move,  Cecile  caught  the  hand. 

"  Raymond,"  she  cried  impetuously.  "  I  felt  something 
was  wrong.    You  and  Jem  have  not  quarrelled,  hein  ?  " 

"  No.  He's  in  the  right."  Savigny  looked  wilder.  "  Let 
me  be,"  said  he  low,  and  glanced  a  second  at  Lucien.  At 
once  withdrawing  her  hand  she  passed  it  to  Duchatel,  who 
went  with  no  disturbance  or  delay. 

"  I  suspected  this  evening,"  she  said  quietly,  when  they 
were  alone,  "that  Jem  had  ceased  to  trust  us.     Is  it  so?" 

"  He  trusts  nobody.  Why  should  he  ?  There  are  bounds 
even  to  his  patience,  and  we  have  reached  its  limit." 

"  We  ?  "  said  Lucien, 

"  I  do  not  exempt  myself.  He  is  taking  the  boy  with  him 
to  the  Western  States  in — well  ?  " 

The  present  head  of  the  Lemaures  had  risen.  "  This  is 
too  much,"  he  ejaculated.  "  Have  I  the  right  to  know 
nothing,  until  it  is  done?  What  far-fetched  folly  are  you 
speaking  of,  Raymond?" 

Savigny  eyed  him,  as  though  measuring.  "  It  would  be 
for  no  more  than  a  year  or  so,"  he  said  calmly.  "  Two  at 
most." 

"  Two  years !     He  would  have  forgotten  everything." 

"  What  then?  "  said  Savigny,  "  Even  if  he  had  forgotten 
all  you  had  taught  him  by  then — which  is,  I  regret  to  think, 
improbable — he  would  still  have  time  to  relearn  the  whole, 
before  he  was  twenty.  Where's  the  hurry,  eh?  Where 
has  it  ever  been  ?  " 

"  You  mean  you  countenance  such  a  frantic  proceed- 
ing? "  cried  Lucien.    "  You?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  countenance  it — push  it  even.  Though  I 
own  I  doubt  if  I  should  have  ventured  to  make  the  plan. 


SAVIGNY'STASK  581 

That  takes  a  brain  bolder  than  mine.  The  man's  a  genius, 
no  less.  On  my  honour,  I  begin  to  see  where  some  of  the 
boy's  resources  come  from." 

"  Antoine's  resources — grand  Dieu !  I  should  know 
what  they  are.  You  imagine  that — even  granted  he  sur- 
vives the  first  month  of  it — a  boy  like  that  will  be  content 
with  the  kind  of  pack-mule  life  Jem  revels  in — sleep  in  a 
shed,  feed  in  a  horse-box,  trust  to  fortune  for  books  and 
society,  not  to  mention  the  barest  comforts  we  demand 
here — incredible !  "     Lucien  paced  about  in  his  indignation. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  he  should  not  be  content.  At  least 
you  admit  he  has  never  had  the  chance  to  try.  The  civilised 
forces  seized  him  early,  earlier  than  the  ordinary  boy, 
thanks  to  all  of  you.  Also,  the  resources  there  may  be  more 
than  you  think.  As  to  books  and  so  forth,  they  naturally 
will  not  be  in  the  desert  all  the  time.  Edgell  himself,  for 
all  our  diatribes,  is  not  a  boor.  There  are  chances  for  study 
over  there." 

Lucien  made  a  contemptuous  sound,  dismissing  the 
chances.     Savigny  gazed  at  him  oddly  under  his  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Edgell  says  ? — that  we  Frenchmen 
never  really  conceive  life  possible  out  of  France.  It  may 
be  true — he  has  some  knowledge  of  us.  I  admit  to  a  weak- 
ness there  myself.  The  English  are  better  in  such  matters — 
they  are  not  afraid  to  stride  the  world,  and  not  surprised 
at  finding  a  passable  life  in  the  farther  corners  of  it." 

"  And  Antoine  ? — who  shies  at  crossing  the  Channel !  " 

"  He  does  not,"  said  the  doctor,  a  little  roused  from  his 
guarded  calm.  "  He  is  tired  for  the  moment,  naturally. 
But  in  all  the  essentials,  he  is  a  better  traveller  than  I  am. 
I  proved  that,  coming  from  Munich.  I  rather  think,"  said 
Savigny,  scratching  his  chin,  "  he  let  me  have  the  best  seat, 
all  the  way.  His  temper's  delicious — ideal — always  was. 
Hey?" 

His  eye  caught  Madamc's,  and  she  smiled.  But,  seeing 
her  husband's  irritation  and  rather  fearing  too  much  teas- 
ing for  him,  she  leant  forward  to  put  an  oar  in.     "  Why 


582  SUCCESSION 

such  extremes,  Raymond,"  she  suggested.  "  Why  not  a 
half  course,  if  you  want  a  change  for  him?  Here  is  Ma- 
dame Duchatel's  proposal  arriving  apropos,  surely  as  good 
in  its  way,  and  less  '  bouleversant '  to  our  ideas.  Why  not 
take  that  ?  " 

"  Because  he  would  be  dead  in  a  year,  if  you  want  my 
opinion,  in  the  cursed  languorous  death-in-life  of  those 
southern  places.  It's  an  affair  of  temperament,  do  you 
grasp?    Jem  sees  that." 

"  Jem's  temperament,"  Lucien  muttered. 

"  It  is  not  only  that  it  is  the  obvious,  the  consequent  thing 
to  do,  arising  naturally  with  the  need,  though  that  has  its 
value.  It  is  applicable  to  the  case  as  well.  That  boy  must 
have  real  life  all  about  him,  even  if  he  may  not  take  part. 
And  he  will  take  part,  I  believe." 

"  They  had  twenty  minutes  tete-a-tete  this  evening," 
Cecile  said.  "  The  child  was  irritable  and  wretched,  the 
man  full  to  the  brim  of  emotion,  anyone  could  see.  They 
talked  of  bridge-construction,  I  believe,  till  he  went." 

"  There  you  are !  The  fellow's  a  tonic  in  himself.  He'll 
watch  like  a  lynx,  I'll  answer  for  him,  and  no  one  the 
wiser." 

"  In  fact  " — Lucien  would  not  be  restrained — "  you  trust 
him  more  than  me.  You  have  never  trusted  me  a  grain  in 
reality — no  one  but  my  father  ever  did.  Now  you  would 
take  any  side  against  me — even  this !  " 

"  He  is  the  father,  that  goes  for  something,"  the  doctor 
continued  calmly.  "  And  you're  nervous,  you  can't  deny  it. 
Cecile's  nervous  too,  though  I  taught  her  a  thing  or  two, 
some  time  since.  The  boy  himself  is  miserably  tried  by 
inaction — he's  feverish  with  it  already ;  and  I  let  him  figure 
his  little  scales  when  he  shouldn't  on  the  precious  strings 
just  to  work  off  the  irritation  he  had  accumulated,  lying 
there.  Well,  think  of  the  future  an  instant,  if  you  had 
your  way — for  I  suppose  this  means  you  wish  to  keep 
him?  "  Lucien  jerked,  though  his  back  was  turned.  "You 
couldn't  do  it,  my  little  menage.    I  am  older  than  either  of 


SAVIGNY'STASK  583 

you,  and  I  tell  you  so.  Let  him  go,  and  enjoy  one  another 
as  you  ought.     Lucien  there  needs  peace." 

The  gentleman  alluded  to  twisted,  and  cast  an  uncomfort- 
able glance  at  his  wife.  It  claimed  assistance,  evidently; 
but  the  wifely  helper  sat  silent,  biting  her  fan.  Unseen, 
she  was  plunging  into  the  depths  of  Savigny's  soul,  and 
could  barely  attend  to  her  natural  duty.  It  was  really  too 
fascinating  a  task.     Lucien  had  to  struggle  alone. 

"That  you  of  all  people  should  desert  us,  Raymond," 
he  said,  growing  almost  piteous,  "  and  support  the  acme  of 
unreason,  the  last  course  in  which  one  could  conceive  your 
sympathy,  if  unforced." 

"  No  one  has  forced  me,  Lucien.  Whom  do  you  sus- 
pect ?  " 

"  You  must  know  you  are  a  kind  of  god  to  Jem.  You 
could  arrest  all  this  with  a  word." 

"  He  told  me  so  when  he  wrote,"  said  Savigny. 

"  Wrote?    You  mean  you  have  not  seen  him?  " 

"  No.  The  only  time  he  tried,  he  missed  me.  What 
then  ? " 

"  He  must  be  an  expert  correspondent." 

"  He  can  say  what  he  means  on  paper-^it's  true,  every- 
one can't.  He  probably  guessed  I  suffered  from  the  hys- 
terical type  of  correspondent,  and  shortened  up." 

"  Did  he  abuse  you?  "  said  Lucien. 

"  No.  If  he  had,  I  should  not  have  attended  to  him.  I 
believe,  even  if  I  rejected  his  idea,"  said  Savigny,  "  you 
would  find  that  he  still  admires  me.  These  English  are  so 
set  in  their  opinions." 

"  He  admired  my  father  too,"  said  Lucien,  facing  him 
now. 

"  He  did  not  omit  that,  my  friend.  It  is  what  makes 
him  shy  of  you." 

"  He  flattered  you — twisted  your  interest — commissioned 
you  to  attack  me,  did  he  ?  " 

"  My  interest !    What  on  earth  do  I  gain  by  it  ?  " 

"What  do  vou  lose?"  said  Lucien  bitterly. 


584  SUCCESSION 

"  Apropos,"  said  Savigny,  as  though  reminded.  "  The 
fellow  said  nothing  about  my  bill." 

They  went  at  last,  very  late.  Savigny  himself  was  the 
weariest,  and  the  younger  man  spared  him  little ;  but  his 
ordinary  brusquerie  was  wanting.  He  had  prepared  him- 
self heedfully  for  the  combat,  Madame  Lemaure  could  see. 
He  came  nearer  to  managing  than  she  would  have  thought 
possible  to  him ;  but  he  accomplished  the  heavier  portion 
of  his  task  before  they  left,  and  by  his  parting  look  and 
slight  smile,  left  the  remainder  in  her  hands.  Cecile's 
glance  in  answer  was  pure  admiration,  for  Lucien  was  a 
different  man  at  leaving,  wakened,  moved  in  a  manner  to 
surprise  both,  restored  to  life  by  that  steady,  easy  opposi- 
tion, which  is  a  tonic  to  some. 

"  Nothing  personal  in  our  Lucien,  is  there  ?  "  Savigny 
addressed  the  fire,  when  left  solitary,  he  dropped  exhausted 
into  his  chair  again.  "  Family  duty,  and  no  more,  caused 
him  to  glower  like  that.  Mysterious,  that  captivating  qual- 
ity— inconvenient  at  times.  .  .  .  Oh,  God  send  he 
won't  appeal  to  the  boy,  weak  as  he  is,  and  upset  it  even 
now !  He's  got,  in  the  dead  hand,  a  weapon  as  strong  as 
ours.  But  he's  a  sense  of  justice  too,  once  he  is  pulled  out 
of  that  bog  of  self-compassion.  .  .  .  It's  that  that  is 
the  deuce." 

So  he  watched  the  flames,  a  long  grey,  dreary  figure,  till 
his  young  subaltern  came  in ;  and  then  the  glance  Dr 
Bronne  encountered  was  far  from  genial.  He  happened 
to  look  especially  alert  and  pleasant  entering,  which  aspect 
clashed  with  Savigny's  mood.  It  was  disagreeably  sug- 
gestive too;  for,  as  the  doctor  had  hinted  to  Madame  Le- 
maure, Bronne  had  been  for  some  time  under  suspicion  of 
nourishing  thoughts  and  pretensions,  concerned  entirely 
with  his  own  interests,  and  leaving  the  tyrant,  and  the 
tyrant's  most  cherished  prejudices,  out  of  account.  It  was 
only  natural,  therefore,  that  Bronne  should  be  made  to 
suffer  for  the  strain  his  chief's  temper  and  self-command 


SAVIGNY'STASK  585 

had  previously  undergone.  He  advanced  to  the  fire,  a 
sacrifice  foredoomed  to  the  gods  of  Destiny,  against  which 
Savigny  in  iiis  solitude  had  been  contending. 

The  victim's  first  subject  was  equally  ill  chosen,  and  ill 
received.  The  subject  was  Jacques  Charretteur,  whom,  to 
begin  with,  Louis  had  no  business  to  meet  without  Savigny 's 
approval ;  and  whom,  to  go  on  with,  he  had  no  business  to 
like  without  his  countenance.  Jacques  was  Savigny 's  pa- 
tient— Bronne  had  taken  to  poaching  lately,  at  every  point. 
It  was  time  he  w^as  punished  for  it,  especially  as  he  had 
presumed  to  be  in  the  right  about  Charretteur,  when  Sa- 
vigny himself  was  in  the  wrong. 

"  It  hurts  nobody  to  starve  a  little,"'  he  said  sourly.  "  We 
should  all  be  the  better  for  it,  once  a  year.  Have  you  been 
drinking,  Louis  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bronne,  who  knew  that  Savigny  knew  he 
was  an  abstainer. 

"  You  look  it.  I  thought  that  fellow  might  have  been 
treating  you." 

"  Jacques  has  little  money  to  treat  on,  I  should  say,"  said 
Bronne. 

"Whose  fault  is  that?"  snapped  Savigny.  "I  can't  pay 
up  to  a  man  who  conceals  his  address — and  gets  it  con- 
cealed from  me,  can  I  ?  " 

"  If  I  withheld  it,"  said  Bronne,  "  it  was  because  I  knew 
he  would  not  take  your  money." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  knows  too  well  he  has  profited  by  your  cure." 

Savigny  was  put  out,  having  expected  another  answer. 
Pride  he  thought  he  could  deal  with ;  but  altering  the  issue 
to  justice  was — well,  just  like  Bronne. 

"  The  soft  answer,"  he  jeered.  "  You're  half  a  woman. 
Cecile  Lemaure  was  right.  Do  you  think  you  can  blarney 
me?"  Bronne  faced  him  calmly,  persistently  contented. 
"  What's  the  young  devil  like  to  look  at,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Bronne,  "  he's  worried  a  bit,  making  both 
ends  meet,  that's  clear.    But  he's  a  healthy  man.    You  can 


586  SUCCESSION 

see  it  in  his  colour  and  his  eyes,  not  to  mention  a  new  tone 
he  has  in  speaking." 

"  Scuffling  is  good  for  young  stock,"  said  Savigny. 
"  Hardens  them.  He  was  too  high  up  for  his  years  when  I 
knocked  him  off." 

"  He'll  get  back  again,"  said  Bronne,  with  confidence. 
"  Higher  than  ever.  It  has  been  a  bad  time,  but  he  is 
through  it.  He  says  he  has  hopes  of  one  good  engagement, 
and  perhaps  another  with  luck." 

"Rose-coloured,  aren't  we?"  said  Savigny,  throwing  his 
partner  another  unpleasant  glance.  Cecile  was  in  the  right 
of  it — Bronne  had  every  advantage,  in  externals  at  least. 
Savigny  had  forgotten,  for  about  a  year,  that  he  was  so 
good-looking.  In  the  workshop,  and  an  apron,  it  was  not 
so  conspicuous.  "  You  look  like  a  fat  cat,  Louis,"  said  his 
superior.    "  Your  aunt  has  been  buttering  you,  I  suppose." 

"  My  aunt  refused  me,  owing  to  migraine.  It  may  be, 
the  warning  I  gave  her  was  insufficient.  I  had  dinner  in 
the  town." 

"  And  met  this  choice  company  afterwards,  hey  ?  " 

"  I  picked  up  young  Edgell,  who  was  with  some  friends. 
We  walked  up  the  hill  together.  There  is  something  in  him, 
don't  you  think?  " 

"  Oh,  plenty — to-night,"  jeered  Savigny.  "  Phil  Edgell 
was  born  vain,  and  that  crew  are  spoiling  him.  He  should 
have  been  at  home,  and  knows  it.  Well,  I  suppose,  with 
these  various  diversions,  you  forgot  my  commission." 

"  No,  sir.  It  was  chez  the  Lemaures  I  encountered  Char- 
retteur." 

"Ha!  He's  after  the  other  two  fiddles,  is  he?  He  didn't 
get  at  the  gosse  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bronne. 

"  I  absolutely  forbade  him  to  see  anybody." 

"  I  supposed  so,"  said  Bronne.  "  Antoine  chuckled  a 
little  when  I  mentioned  you." 

"  Was  he  the  worse  for  it?  " 

"  Rather  the  better,  I  think.    He  felt  he  had  done  some- 


SAVIGNY'STASK  587 

thing  in  spite  of  somebody,  and  went  to  sleep  contented." 

"He  wants  whipping,"  growled  the  doctor;  and  asked 
for  details,  but  absently.  He  was  far  more  anxious,  he 
told  himself,  about  Louis  than  about  Antoinc.  The  young 
man  was  in  a  dangerously  inflated  condition,  and  something 
had  got  to  be  done.  Among  all  surgical  operations  dealing 
with  the  mind,  in  which  Savigny  was  an  expert,  that  of 
pricking  self-confidence  was  the  finest  and  most  fascinating 
trick.  He  had  practised  it  largely.  Consequently,  as  soon 
as  Bronne  proposed  going  to  bed,  he  buckled  to  the  task, 
and  teased  him  really  brutally  for  half-an-hour  on  the  sub- 
ject of  lady  patients.  Nearly  every  charge  he  produced 
against  him  was  unjust,  but  Bronne  bore  the  cloud  of  ar- 
rows without  flinching,  barely  flushing  indeed,  as  he  faced 
his  tormentor.  This  saint-like  demeanor  was  Savigny's 
own  fault,  for  he  had  trained  him  for  the  part  of  Sebastian 
most  sedulously. 

Only  in  the  last  few  minutes  of  the  evening  the  tyrant 
changed  his  tone. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  do  this,  Louis?  "  he  said. 

Bronne  smiled  at  him:  a  quality  of  smile,  firm  in  the 
jaw,  wath  which  again  his  patron  was  perfectly  familiar. 
It  expressed,  in  an  otherwise  affable  young  man,  unheard- 
of  obstinacy  of  purpose.  None  knew  better  than  Savigny 
of  what  force,  in  emergency,  Bronne's  will  was  capable. 

"  Since  I  am  here  now,  sir,"  he  observed,  "  I  shall  claim 
a  short  holiday  at  Easter.  I  think  you  should  be  warned 
in  time,  in  case  you  wish  to  replace  me."  Now,  Savigny 
had  believed  his  partner  had  forgone  a  holiday  during  the 
Christmas  week  solely  out  of  a  desire  for  his  society.  Such 
cunning  is  repugnant  in  youth.  "You  do  not  object?" 
Bronne  pressed  him. 

"  Probably,"  said  Savigny,  considering.  "  Wouldn't  it 
save  time,  on  the  whole,  to  accompany  Mademoiselle  Made- 
leine to-morrow?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  think  it  necessary." 


588  SUCCESSION 

"  Oh — not  necessary.  Advisable  to  take  her  opinion, 
perhaps.     Or  are  you  sure  without  asking?" 

Bronne  did  not  reply. 

"  You  can't  leave  the  poor  child  hanging,"  scolded  Sa- 
vigny.  "  I  never  heard  such  selfish  nonsense.  She's  not  fit 
to  be  played  with,  you  ought  to  know.  Have  the  position 
clear,  or  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"  Our  position  is  completely  clear,"  Bronne  reassured 
him,  "  and  has  been  for  a  week.  I  do  not  care  to  leave  things 
to  chance,  either." 

Grim  silence  descended.  "  I  shall  find  it  hard  to  replace 
you,"  said  Savigny.  "  I  mean,  of  course,  at  Easter."  He 
looked  each  side  of  Bronne. 

"  I  should  have  found  Madeleine  harder  to  replace,"  said 
he. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  jeered  Savigny,  "  or  you  won't 
be  up  in  time." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  sleep." 

"  Feverish,  are  you,  Louis  ?    Here,  let's  see." 

The  younger  man  held  out  his  hand,  and  the  elder,  with- 
out touching  the  pulse,  enclosed  it  in  a  clasp  of  steel. 

"  Merely  alive,"  said  Savigny.  "  Well,  that's  as  I  sup- 
posed.   Go  along." 

He  sat  for  hours  after  Bronne's  departure,  an  unresist- 
ing prey  to  the  past  revived  by  the  lover's  look ;  tormenting 
himself  with  the  irretrievable,  in  the  manner  so  drastically 
forbidden  to  his  patients ;  more  hopeless  and  more  grey  as 
the  small  hours  dragged  by;  for  Savigny,  the  saviour  of 
many,  had  never  cured  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   LAST   ASSAULT 

DucHATEL,  who  had  undertaken  the  Memoir,  had  some 
friction  with  the  son  over  the  letters.  It  was  inevitable  to 
have  friction  with  him  at  this  period,  and  Victor  made 
every  allowance  for  the  state  of  things;  but  having  been 
invited  by  Lucien  in  person  to  undertake  the  editing  of  this 
correspondence,  and  with  his  own  old,  and  his  mother's 
still  older,  acquaintance  with  the  family,  he  considered  that 
he  might  have  been  allowed  a  freer  hand. 

"  Lucien  suspects  me  of  a  desire  to  be  overflowing,  evi- 
dently," said  Victor,  with  some  natural  annoyance.  "  He 
does  not  seem  to  realise  that  the  shorter  the  memoir,  the 
more  necessary  it  is  to  choose  only  the  best  and  most  char- 
acteristic passages.  Edgell,  who  sent  me  that  charming 
note  to  his  wife  as  a  child,  understands  more  the  kind  of 
thing  I  want.  I  value  Lemaure  as  a  critic  less — consider- 
ably less — though  I  dare  not  repeat  it  to  Lucien." 

He  pushed  at  the  piles  of  letters  rather  testily.  As  let- 
ters, they  maintained  a  very  high  level  of  interest,  and 
some,  even  regarded  as  criticism,  were  excellent,  however 
much  they  might  diverge  from  Victor's  views.  But  he 
wanted  the  man :  naturally,  having  known  him ;  and  though 
sensitive  in  observation,  and  a  clever  writer,  he  was  shy 
of  trusting  too  much  to  his  own  commentary  and  random 
memories:  or  even  to  his  mother's,  since  her  opinions  on 
the  subject,  though  crisp  and  amusing,  were  inclined  to  be 
coloured  by  an  ancient  antagonism  with  M.  Lemaure's 
wife. 

589 


590  SUCCESSION 

Beyond  these  pin-pricks,  Victor  had  enjoyed  the  task  of 
the  past  month  extraordinarily,  and  looked  forward  to  what 
remained  in  front  of  him  with  complacency.  He  had 
dropped  most  of  his  other  current  occupations  for  the  pur- 
pose of  completing  this ;  and  after  the  first  inevitable 
shrinking  at  any  departure  from  his  habits,  he  found  the 
literary  labour  attractive  in  itself,  and  a  stimulating  change. 
Duchatel  was  nothing  if  not  thorough ;  and  the  records 
of  the  long  life,  as  he  pursued  them  back,  seemed  to  open 
channels  of  forgotten  interest  in  all  directions,  and  awaken 
him  to  the  claims  of  that  despised  century  which  produced 
his  own.  As  with  the  passage  of  every  day's  reading  he 
admitted  this  impression  more,  Madame  his  mother  arose 
triumphant,  and  vaunted  the  ascendancy  of  her  generation, 
as  though  she  had  lain  crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  the 
present  one  for  long — which  certainly  was  not  the  case. 
She  had  shown  immense  interest  in  the  work  as  it 
progressed,  and  with  it  a  new  gentleness  towards  the  au- 
thor, who  never  failed  in  gentleness  to  her.  For  weeks  past 
now  their  enforced  seclusion  side  by  side  had  become  an 
almost  agreeable  intimacy,  and  both,  while  hardly  admitting 
the  fact,  were  happier. 

She  was  sitting  with  him  in  his  own  little  sanctuary  this 
morning,  occupied  in  knitting  and  talking  at  intervals  to 
the  parrot,  with  whose  company  Victor  could  have  dispensed 
better  than  with  hers ;  but  where  Madame  sat,  her  bird 
sat  also;  and  as  her  sudden  reminiscences,  suggested  by 
passages  he  read  from  time  to  time,  were  useful,  he  had 
not  yet  accepted  her  reiterated  proposal  of  removing  her- 
self and  the  cage  beyond  reach  of  his  criticism. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I  had  an  invitation 
yesterday."  Madame  laid  her  knitting  down.  It  was  not 
unheard  of,  of  course,  for  Victor  to  have  an  invitation,  but 
she  expected  to  be  informed  at  once,  and  have  leisure  to 
prepare  her  mind.  This  invitation,  he  proceeded  to  explain, 
might  involve  spending  a  night  out  of  Paris,  a  thing  not  to 
be  spoken  of  lightly,  since  Madame  had  no  pleasure  in  play- 


THE   LAST    ASSAULT  591 

ing  her  nightly  patience  alone.  Looking  severely  upon  her 
son,  she  demanded  explanations.  Victor  said  he  had  been 
honoured  by  a  letter  from  a  celebrated  person,  Dr  Reuss, 
on  the  subject  he  had  in  hand.  He  was  about  to  explain 
further,  for  his  mother's  memory  was  subject  to  lapses  now, 
when  she  cut  him  off. 

"  Reuss  knew  Lemaure,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
aware  of  that.  What  then?  He  does  not  expect  you  to  go 
to  Germany  ?  " 

Her  son  reassured  her.  "  A  relation  of  his  is  visiting  in 
this  neighbourhood,  that  is  all,  at  the  chateau  of  the  Comte 

de  L .     The  relation  writes  a  fearful  German  scrawl, 

and  encloses  a  note  from  Reuss  in  French." 

"  Read  it,"  his  mother  commanded. 

Victor  read  obediently,  correcting  a  word  here  and  there ; 
for  the  phrasing,  though  fluent,  was  not  impeccable.  It 
had  been  far  from  Reuss's  thoughts  in  writing  that  the 
composition  might  be  read  to  such  a  critic ;  but,  as  chance 
would  have  it,  he  opened  with  a  compliment,  rather  over- 
laden, to  the  young  composer  he  addressed. 

"  That  is  well  said,  for  a  German,"  commented  Madame, 
"  Continue,  Victor." 

"  It  has  reached  me,"  Reuss  wrote,  "  that  you  have  un- 
dertaken, at  Lucien  Lemaure's  request,  the  memoir  of  his 
late  father.  Indeed  I  could  desire  for  no  writer,  of  what- 
ever mark,  a  worthier  subject.  As  we  were  in  close  cor- 
respondence, Lemaure  and  I,  for  many  years,  and  as  the 
letters  cover  a  period  practically  untouched  in  the  only  ex- 
isting biography,  I  seize  the  occasion  of  a  short  visit  of  my 
brother-in-law  to  France,  to  place  a  selection  of  these  at 
your  service.  Lorbeer  will  have  the  packet  with  him  at 
this  address,  where  he  is  to  pass  two  days  next  week,  in 
the  company  of  the  Fiirst "  He  mentioned  a  connec- 
tion of  a  German  royal  house,  who  was  also  aged,  an  invalid 
and  an  amateur  of  note.  "  That  is  all  Reuss  says,"  Duchatel 
finished,  turning. 


592  SUCCESSION 

"  Humph,"  said  Madame.  "  And  the  other  letter  invites 
yon  ?  " 

"  The  prince  and  the  brother-in-law  would  think  it  an 
honour  to  receive  me,  mamma,  if  I  can  spare  the  time  from 
my  more  weighty  labours.    Otherwise " 

The  parrot  here  interrupted  with  a  whistle. 

"  Psst !  "  said  Madarrie  reprovingly.  "  However,  I  quite 
agree  with  him.  You  have  no  more  weighty  labour  for  the 
moment  than  this  book,  which  should  appear  as  soon  as 
possible.    You  need  not  stay  the  night." 

"  The  prince  proposes  a  night,"  said  Victor.  "  It  is  evi- 
dently my  duty  to  wait  on  his  highness,  not  to  mention  M. 
Lorbeer,  where  and  when  directed." 

"  Your  duty  is  to  Charles,"  snapped  Madame,  "  not  to 
any  German  counts  or  conductors  either." 

"  I  have  collected  the  facts,"  observed  Victor,  looking  at 
his  notes.  "  I  simply  want  the  letters  and  remains  from 
such  as  possess  them.  It  is  the  correspondent's  business  to 
select  them,  naturally.  This  person  has  a  manuscript  as^ 
well,  he  says." 

"  Humph,"  said  Madame,  who  knew  his  shyness,  and 
could  read  disinclination  in  his  face.  "  Well,  what  is  the 
alternative?  " 

"  I  have  yet  to  see,"  said  Victor.  "  I  have  not  finished 
my  lesson."  He  picked  up  Lorbeer's  letter  again  with  a 
sigh  which  was  merely  dramatic,  for  he  read  German 
easily,  though  he  disliked  its  appearance  on  the  paper.  "  '  If 
not,'  "  he  pursued  it,  " '  the  Lemaures  send  the  little  An- 
toine  to  us  for  the  night  of  Saturday,  and  I  will  make  of 
him  my  courier.  With  Reuss's  contribution,  I  trust  An- 
toine  will  bring  you  his,  which  Reuss  says  is  for  beauty 
and  value  unequalled,  though  again  they  must  be  rigorously 
chosen.    They  have  been  in  my  brother-in-law's  care  since 

May,  and  he  entrusts  me  to  return  them' "  Sapristi," 

Duchatel  interrupted  himself.  "  It  is  true  I  had  not  thought 
of  that." 

"  You  should  have,  then,"  snapped  Madame,  who  was 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  593 

equally  surprised.  "  It  was  your  business  to  think  of  the 
possibility,  and  to  demand  them.  A  mere  child  would  not 
offer  theni  unprompted." 

"  That  mere  child  does  most  things  unprompted,"  said 
Victor. 

"  Why  did  Reuss  guard  the  packet?  "  said  Madame. 

"  By  the  boy's  request,  this  Lorbeer  says — because  he 
feared  rightly  to  lose  them  in  his  wanderings." 

"  Why  not  Lucien  ?  "  said  Madame. 

"  Well,"  said  Victor,  "  I  imagine  because  Antoine  would 
sooner  have  destroyed  them  outright  than  place  them  in 
his  uncle's  hands." 

"  Absurd,  Victor.  I  wish  you  would  not  make  such  in- 
sinuations. Lucien  was  the  natural  person.  He  might  at 
least  have  reminded  you  of  their  existence,  when  he  was 
here  the  other  night." 

"  Lucien  ?  He  probably  barely  knew  of  them.  You 
really  have  no  conception,  mother,  how  that  friendship 
passed  over  his  head." 

"  If  so,"  said  Madame,  "  it  is  the  most  unjust  thing  I 
have  heard  of  Charles.  Lucien  is  an  excellent  and  ad- 
mirable person." 

"  Granted,"  said  Victor. 

"  And  Charles,  when  all  is  said,  was  fanciful  and  hot- 
headed." 

"  I  will  mention  it,"  sniiled  Victor,  "  among  your  con- 
tributions. I  could  barely  have  touched  on  that  side  of  my 
subject  without  your  help." 

He  turned  back  to  Lorbeer's  invitation,  and  talked  over 
the  situation  a  little  longer,  weighing  the  reasons  for  and 
against  the  expedition,  as  though  it  had  been  a  question  of 
visiting  the  Antipodes,  instead  of  a  house  fifteen  miles 
away.  Finally,  no  doubt  a  little  biassed  by  her  own  inter- 
ests, Madame  Duchatel,  after  a  close  examination  of  the 
letter,  advised  her  son  to  decline. 

"  He  does  not  press  you  sufficiently,"  said  she,  laying  it 
down  and  looking  over  her  spectacles.     "  I  should  credit 


594  SUCCESSION 

his  compliments  a  trifle  more  if  he  seemed  really  anxious 
for  your  society.  He  is  only  to  be  there  two  days  at  most ; 
and  if  during  that  time  he  has  a  sick  prince  on  his  hands, 
not  to  mention  that  chatterbox,  they  will  be  sufficient  with- 
out you." 

"  That  is  what  I  thought,"  said  Victor. 

"  Have  the  boy  here,"  said  Madame,  "  and  use  his  mem- 
ory afterwards,  is  what  I  advise." 

Victor  seemed  dubious.  "  I  fear  his  memory  is  being 
allowed  to  rust,  as  part  of  the  regime,  and  he  sees  few 
people  at  present.  That  he  is  allowed  to  make  this  visit  is 
remarkable.    I  suppose  his  uncle  goes  too," 

"  They  would  accept  the  carriage,  possibly,"  said  Ma- 
dame, after  another  interval.  "  You  had  better  telephone, 
Victor,  and  offer  it." 

Victor  did  so.    At  lunch  he  reported  the  result. 

"  I  am  to  go,  Antoine  says,"  he  observed,  looking  down- 
cast over  his  careful  carving. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  snapped  his  mother. 

"  When  I  rang  them  up,  he  answered  me  himself.  He 
had  been  on  the  point,  it  seems,  of  addressing  me.  He  is 
going  on  Saturday  as  a  fact,  but  returns  early  on  Sunday 
to  rest  before  his  rehearsal." 

"  What  is  that  about  rehearsals  ?  "  cried  Madame. 

"  It  will  be  no  effort,"  explained  Victor,  "  unless  critical. 
Theoretically,  Monsieur  sits  with  folded  hands.  It  is  true, 
he  will  try  to  play  all  their  instruments,  but  if  he  does  he 
will  be  arrested.  Next  day  he  leaves  Paris  in  his  father's 
custody,  if  all  is  well." 

"  How  is  he?  "  said  Madame. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Victor.    "  I  asked  him." 

"  How  well  do  you  gather  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  found  out  towards  the  close  of  our  conversation  that 
he  was  sitting  with  the  concierge  when  the  bell  rang,  be- 
cause he  might  not  walk  up  the  stairs  without  assistance." 

"  He  should  not  have  been  talking,  probably,"  said  Ma- 
dame. 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  595 

"  He  talked,  mother."  said  Victor.  "  Luckily  he  lost  his 
breath  occasionally  and  I  protested  steadily  in  all  the 
pauses.  It  seems  his  first  plan  had  been  to  make  the  ex- 
pedition alone ;  or,  rather,  in  the  company  of  M.  Lorbeer's 
chauffeur,  who  will  be  sent  to  fetch  him,  and  who  is  an  old 
and  valued  friend." 

"  Little  giddy-pate,"  said  IMadame,  moved  to  a  grim 
smile.  "  But  Lucien  should  not  let  him  indulge  these  freaks. 
It  is  absurd." 

"  So  I  told  Antoine,"  said  Victor.  "  He  replied  that  there 
was  room  in  the  car  for  me,  and  that  the  prince  had  a  col- 
lection of  manuscripts  that  I  should  enormously  enjoy  look- 
ing over.  I  shall  not  enjoy  it  in  the  least.  I  do  not  the 
least  wash  to  go.  But  it  appears  Antoine  has  already  in- 
formed the  party  that  he  is  bringing  me.  He  told  Lorbeer 
that  I  had  nothing  particular  to  do,  and  recommended  me 
to  the  prince's  consideration  as  the  best  example  of  the 
new  school  he  could  pick  up  at  such  short  notice." 

"  Victor !  " 

"  I  assure  you  that  was  the  line  adopted.  Antoine  is 
worse  since  his  illness ;  the  telephone  company  should  not 
allow  it.  He  sent  a  message  in  addition  to  you,  mother, 
only  he  was  giggling  so  much  that  I  almost  failed  to  grasp 
it.    I  still  hope  I  failed  to  grasp,"  said  Victor. 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  said  Madame  sharply. 

"  Antoine  wished  you  to  know  that  Madame  Lorbeer  had 
promised  to  take  care  of  me,  if  I  went.  Of  course  she  said 
no  such  thing,"  added  Victor,  in  haste. 

His  mother  was  considering.  "  Who  is  Madame  Lor- 
beer?" she  demanded. 

"  Well,  she  is  Reuss's  sister,  to  begin  with." 

"  Which  sister  ?  Not  Carlotta  ?  "  Madame's  face  had 
altered. 

\'ictor  shrugged.    "  Perhaps." 

"  That  was  the  man  Carlotta  married,  was  it  ?  Of  course, 
it  must  be  she.  Victor,  you  must  certainly  go.  I  can  dine 
and  sleep  one  night  without  your  aid." 


596  SUCCESSION 

"  It  need  not  be  the  night,"  inserted  Victor. 

"  It  need,  since  I  wish  you  to  behave  well.  She  is  prob- 
ably a  remarkable  woman." 

"  Probably !  "  said  Victor. 

"  I  speak  of  what  I  know,"  said  Madame.  "  Carlotta 
Reuss  was  one  of  the  most  naturally  sensible  girls  I  ever 
met,  thoroughly  well  trained  and  modest.  I  remember  her 
when  she  stayed  with  Henriette.  A  most  wise  step  I  con- 
sidered it  on  Charles's  part  to  invite  her  as  a  friend  for  his 
daughter,  and  a  thousand  pities  she  and  Henriette  parted 
so  soon." 

"  What  happened  ?  "  asked  Victor,  somewhat  interested. 
Duchatel  had  been  forced  to  struggle  against  heavy  odds, 
not  to  write  Henriette's  biography  instead  of  her  father's, 
so  imbued  was  M.  Lemaure's  correspondence  during  the 
middle  period  with  his  daughter's  power  and  personality. 
Victor,  owing  to  his  mother's  prudence,  had  never  known 
Henriette  in  the  flesh ;  but  even  reading  of  her  he  had  been, 
as  it  were,  retrospectively  fascinated. 

"  Henriette  loved  her  German  friend  passionately  for  a 
week,"  said  his  mother  grimly,  "  and  then  discovered  that 
her  father  was  too  fond  of  her.  The  end  to  the  Paris  visit 
came  rapidly.  Carlotta,  when  roused,  had  a  tongue  as  well 
as  she.  Charles  had  to  wait  till  his  next  visit  to  Germany 
to  renew  the  acquaintance ;  but  he  did  so.  Certainly,  if  it 
is  only  for  his  sake,  you  must  go." 

"  I  cannot  speak  German,"  said  Victor,  shrinking  ever 
more  as  the  point  was  pressed.  "  She  can  send  the  things 
by  Antoine." 

"  Carlotta  speaks  French  very  prettily,  or  did.  She  had 
twice  Henriette's  capacity  and  perseverance.  She  had  an 
intellect,  young  as  she  was " 

"  A  German  intellectual,"  Victor  groaned.  "  The  saints 
preserve  me." 

"  She  had  an  intellect,"  resumed  Madame  severely, 
"  though  she  was  clever  enough  to  conceal  it.  With  men, 
her  manner  was  absolutely  conventional ;    and  she  had  in- 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  597 

numerable  chances  in  consequence.  She  was  to  have  married 
Albrecht  the  litteraire  and  philosopher,  who  died  young. 
I  met  him  also.  You  remember  the  story?  She  nursed 
him  all  through  his  illness,  and  was  the  real  author  of  the 
Life,  so  Charles  informed  me,  though  she  concealed  her 
name.  No  one  would  imagine  that  a  woman's  book — ex- 
cellent reading  as  it  is,"  observed  Madame,  pursing  her  lips. 

"  Mamma,  you  make  me  tremble  more  and  more.  Why 
should  I  see  this  person  ?  " 

"  Because  she  was  closely  connected  with  the  best  period 
of  Charles's  life,  and  will  know  all  her  brother  knows,  and 
more.  Not  to  mention  that  her  conversation  has  twice  the 
value  of  his.  It  is  your  duty  simply  as  biographer,  not  to 
miss  so  unusual  an  opportunity.  I  should  like  to  go  my- 
self," said  Madame. 

"  Well,  why  not?  "  her  son  cried. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing  your  friend  M.  Edgell  does  not  in- 
vite me,"  said  Madame,  folding  her  bony  hands.  "  And 
for  another,  I  am  not  writing  your  book.  Do  not  be  a  shy 
fool,  Victor.  Really,  I  do  not  know  what  men  are  be- 
coming." 

What  Victor  had  become,  she  had  made  him.  He  lit- 
erally did  suffer  in  these  days  from  breaking  his  fixed  habits 
and  issuing  from  his  guarded  retirement.  Short  excursions 
into  society  he  accomplished  and  enjoyed,  but  to  spend  a 
night  from  home,  unless  in  a  hotel,  was  now  a  rare  occur- 
rence. The  more  his  name  grew,  the  less  he  liked  to  be 
obliged  to  support  it.  H  taken  by  surprise  by  the  world, 
he  acquitted  himself  admirably ;  but  the  prospect  of  facing 
an  artistic  coterie  in  a  country  house,  even  for  a  few  hours, 
daunted  him.  Yet  the  excursion  proved,  in  the  event, 
singularly  harmless.  Victor  sustained  its  trials  without 
accident,  and  returned  on  Sunday  afternoon  in  a  very  good 
humour  with  himself  and  all  the  world. 

"  Why,"  he  attacked  his  mother,  when  he  had  repeated 
Frau  Lorbeer's  messages,  "  why  had  you  not  mentioned  the 
little  saint  was  so  pretty?" 


598  SUCCESSION 

Madame  smiled  grimly.  "  I  thought  she  might  have 
grown  fat,"  she  said.  "  Saints  in  her  country  do.  What 
is  the  husband  like,  Victor,  eh  ?  " 

"  Like  a  second  choice,"  said  Victor,  after  consideration. 
"  A  saint  has  to  devote  herself  for  somebody.  Lorbeer  is 
that  somebody — he  certainly  exists.  That  is,  I  was  oc- 
casionally reminded  by  his  chair  creaking  that  he  was  in  the 
room." 

"  I  hope  you  behaved  properly,"  said  Madame. 

"  I  did,"  said  Duchatel.  "  Antoine  did  not.  Madame 
Carlotta  has  evidently  forgiven  Antoine  his  mother's  indis- 
cretions." 

"  Ha !  "  His  mother  leant  forward  interested.  "  What 
does  Carlotta  think  of  Antoine?" 

"  She  loves  him,"  said  Victor. 

"  Pish !    I  mean,  of  his  condition." 

Victor  lifted  his  brows.  "  I  did  not  ask.  One  saw  every- 
thing necessary  in  her  face,  at  the  first  moment  of  meeting, 
and  the  last.  She  could  barely  let  him  go.  She  struck  me 
as  the  tranquil  kind  of  angel  that  demands  tragedy  as  a 
background,"  said  Victor,  "  and  snatches  any  fragment  of 
it  to  her  as  her  right.  That,  as  nearly  as  I  can  render  it, 
is  the  effect  of  the  group  they  made." 

Madame  eyed  him  in  silence.  She  appreciated  her  son's 
strokes  of  description  more  than  she  would  admit  aloud, 
and  endeavoured  always  to  draw  him  on,  while  appearing 
to  discourage  him.  ''  I  thought  you  said  the  little  one 
amused  you,"  she  observed. 

"  He  did.  He  amused  the  prince,  who  is  apoplectic, 
rather  dangerously.  The  chauffeur  had  to  beseech  him  to 
be  silent  at  awkward  points  of  the  road.  He  is  living  pas- 
sionately, catching  the  moments  as  if  they  were  counted. 
You  can  conceive  nothing  more  brilliant  or  pathetic,"  said 
Victor. 

"  Does  he  complain  ?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"  Complain  ?  He  says  he  is  well,  to  every  inquiry.  He 
is  much  amused  by  his  own  helplessness.    He  is  full  of  chat- 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  599 

ter  about  this  American  project,  and  what  he  means  to  do 
with  his  father.  II  raille  son  sort."  Victor  turned,  and 
leant  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  meeting  his  mother's 
severe  gaze. 

"  What  curious  nonsense  to  compare  him  with  Marcel, 
as  they  persist  in  doing,"  she  said,  folding  her  hands  tightly 
on  the  polished  table.  "  Marcel  had  not  that  temperament 
in  the  least.  He  was  fastidious,  over-anxious,  easily  de- 
pressed. He  was  far  liker  you,  on  my  word,  than  this 
child." 

"  Lemaure  said  that."  said  Victor.  "  I  often  thought  he 
suffered  me  so  kindly  because  of  some  resemblance  that 
he  saw.  Well,  Antoine  is  not  shy,  at  least.  I  could  wish 
he  were  more  so.  I  cannot  compete  when  he  chooses  to 
exert  himself.  Fortunately,  very  little  exertion  finishes 
him." 

"  Did  you  see  him  home?  " 

"  No.  He  put  me  down  at  the  Etoile.  I  gave  the  chauf- 
feur sufficient,"  said  Victor,  "  to  indicate  that  I  value  his 
life." 

"  You  should  have  seen  him  home.  Have  you  got  the 
letters?  " 

"  Plenty,  and  a  manuscript  as  well ;   but  not  the  boy's." 

"Not?" 

"  Antoine  did  not  offer  them,  and  I  did  not  open  the  sub- 
ject. Reuss's  sister  passed  his  portion  back  to  him  with  a 
letter  from  her  brother:  that  I  know,  because  she  men- 
tioned it.  There  is  some  difficulty  with  Lucien,  I  gather. 
Antoine  thinks  it  necessary  to  ask  his  leave." 

"  Ha !  "  said  Madame,  half  approving  and  half  curious. 
"  Go  on." 

"  I  cannot  go  on,"  said  Victor.  "  I  cannot  understand 
the  situation.  Lucien  has  chosen  to  block  the  domestic 
understanding  somehow,  and  the  boy  is  half  frightened, 
half  indignant  at  his  behaviour.  Even  she,  our  little  saint, 
could  not  get  him  to  talk  freely  of  his  grandfather,  though 
he  listened  to  her  wide-eyed.     She  is  a  beautiful  talker. 


6oo  SUCCESSION 

as  you  said.  When  she  asked,  in  Reuss's  name,  about  the 
end,  the  child  only  gazed  in  distress  and  shook  his  head. 
The  most  natural  questions  of  close  friends  like  Reuss 
can  win  no  reply  from  Lucien,  or  only  the  most  conven- 
tional. He  was  present,  of  course,  but  he  is  strangely  jeal- 
ous of  his  information.  His  behaviour  has  driven  the  boy, 
at  all  events,  almost  to  the  end  of  his  tether.  Antoine  told 
me  he  was  glad  to  be  leaving  Paris,  in  a  manner — well,  you 
should  have  seen  it." 

"  Jealousy  is  the  bane  of  that  brood,"  said  Madame 
Duchatel.  She  added :  "  There  is  plenty,  doubtless,  to  be 
said  both  sides." 

"  Only  one  expects  both  sides  of  that  brood  to  say  it," 
said  Duchatel  drily.    "  That  is  where  our  Lucien  fails." 

"  That  is  true.    He  is  probably  ill,"  said  Madame. 

"  As  ill,  in  his  way,  as  the  boy.  Cecile  and  Savigny  both 
treat  him  as  a  sick  man — sick  in  mind.  But  if  his  wife  can- 
not win  speech  from  him " 

"  Nobody  else  can.  I  am  pleased,  Victor,  you  give  wives 
so  much  credit." 

"  Merely  that  wife,"  said  Victor.  "  I  cannot  forgive  the 
man  for  teasing  Cecile  so.  It  is  sheer  stupidity  on  his  part 
to  undervalue  her." 

"  The  outsider  is  never  wanting  to  say  that,"  pronounced 
Madame;  but,  within,  she  agreed  with  him  again. 

It  so  happened  that  Antoine  arrived  home  towards  three 
o'clock  that  Sunday  afternoon,  with  a  surplus  of  good  spirits 
that  needed  spending.  The  origins  of  this  happy  condition 
of  mind  were  not  far  to  seek ;  indeed,  the  most  immediate 
were  the  sun  on  his  bare  head  as  he  sat  in  the  Lorbeers' 
commodious  car,  and  the  pleasure  of  whirring  softly  through 
the  wide  streets  on  a  holiday  afternoon,  among  cheerful 
noises  and  the  stir  of  humanity,  which  circumstances  had 
forbidden  him  for  some  weeks  past  to  watch  at  ease.  It 
happened,  in  addition,  that  the  emotion  aroused  by  this  visit 
to  old  friends,  and  the  country  vistas  and  country  air,  had 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  6oi 

warmed  him  in  certain  places  to  which  the  sun  cannot  at- 
tain, and  that  he  was  enjoying  an  interhide  of  ph}sical 
well-being  and  serenity  of  mind.  The  broad  chauffeur's 
manoeuvres  to  avoid  the  traffic  entertained  him,  every  absurd 
trifle  in  the  life  of  this  Paris  he  was  so  soon  to  leave  reached 
a  little  deeper  than  diversion;  and  he  suffered  finally,  on 
arriving  after  his  short  absence  at  the  familiar  house  now 
shorn  of  its  dearest  meaning,  an  opening  of  heart  to  all  its 
inmates,  from  the  trim  and  smiling  concierge,  who  rose  from 
her  seat  at  the  door  to  help  him  out,  to  the  severe  and  lonely 
master,  at  his  work  in  the  study  on  the  fourth  floor. 

Since  Antoine's  proceedings,  at  any  given  moment  of  his 
life,  depended  on  the  precise  mixture  and  temperature  of 
his  feelings  in  the  moment  just  previous,  it  is  necessary  to 
sum  up  these  slight  causes,  before  the  effects  can  be  de- 
tailed. It  should  be  added  to  the  account  that  Lucien,  in 
the  peaceful  after-dinner  period,  had  allowed  himself  a 
pause  in  the  business  of  sorting  and  deciphering  the  dusty 
pile  of  his  father's  manuscripts  upon  the  table,  and  was 
resting  in  his  father's  chair  by  the  hearth,  bowed  and 
changed,  the  back  of  his  head  with  its  view  of  whitening 
hair  towards  the  door,  his  hand  lifted  wearily  to  support 
his  brow.    The  door  opened,  and  he  turned  with  a  start. 

"You,  my  dear,  already?"  he  said,  by  a  mere  chance, 
exactly  in  his  father's  tone. 

The  boy  stood  a  moment  facing  the  level  winter  sun 
through  the  high  window,  his  eyes  narrowed  to  exclude  its 
dazzle,  motionless.  His  uncle  had  not  had  such  a  fair  view 
of  him  for  weeks,  and  he  told  himself  instantly,  there  was 
little  change.  Nor  was  there  an  emphatic  change  anywhere 
to  be  noted,  for  the  family  had  often  seen  him  pale.  He 
was  controlling  his  disturbed  breath  just  visibly,  and  though 
not  precisely  stooping,  and  standing  well  as  do  those  who 
have  been  taught  to  stand,  he  carried  himself  now  in  a 
fashion  that  suggested  consciousness  of  a  weak  point  in  the 
frame.  Perturbation  showed  on  his  brow  just  for  the  sec- 
onds while  the  sun  still  blinded  him.     When  things  came 


6o2  SUCCESSION 

clear,  and  it  was  nobody  after  all  but  his  uncle  in  the  chair, 
he  laughed  at  himself,  walked  forward  and  flung  his  arms 
about  Lucien  with  as  much  violence  and  vivacity  as  though 
his  vision  had  led  him  right  instead  of  wrong,  and  times 
changed  for  ever  inexorably  were  still  untampered  with, 

"  He  carried  me  upstairs,"  he  observed,  still  giggling. 
"  I  said,  he  need  not,  but  he  said  the  gracious  lady  had  told 
him  to.  That  is  what  he  calls  her  in  German.  But  to  be 
carried ! — and  he  is  so  fat !  " 

"  Thou  art  not,"  said  Lucien. 

The  boy  had  sunk  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  was  lean- 
ing upon  him,  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  done  so  every  day 
since  that  tragic  Christmas.  One  thing  led  to  another  with 
Antoine,  and  since  he  had  begun  in  amicable  confidence,  the 
action  followed  on  the  words.  Both  little  efforts  were  so 
neatly  done  as  to  draw  Lucien  under  the  spell.  There  was 
no  choice,  it  seemed,  but  to  reply  in  kind,  when  he  was 
handed  the  cue  by  so  excellent  a  performer.  It  crossed  his 
mind,  of  course,  that  the  boy  was  acting — he  always  overdid 
things  sufficiently  to  admit  that  suspicion — and  the  first 
laugh  had  rung  unnaturally  to  his  ear.  It  is  quite  doubtful 
if  Antoine  himself  could  have  told  how  far  the  emotion  he 
called  out  instantly  to  cover  the  inner  pang  was  real.  The 
whole  was  an  impulse,  but  a  happy  impulse:  suited  to  the 
place  and  hour,  yet  more  closely  to  the  situation  and  the 
man.  Lucien's  strict  nature  not  only  demanded  affection, 
but  needed  a  very  free  exhibition  to  believe  in  its  exist- 
ence. He  was  prone  to  doubt,  by  nature  and  habit — doubt 
of  his  own  blessings  above  all.  He  doubted  everybody, 
until  they  proved  beyond  question  that  doubt  was  an  insult, 
as  his  father  and  his  wife  had  done,  after  no  light  struggle. 
He  had  never  believed  that  Antoine  cared  for  him,  nor 
treated  him  as  though  he  believed  it.  His  position  towards 
his  nephew  w^as  official  simply  as  compared  with  his  father's 
— he  seemed  almost  to  vaunt  the  distinction.  When  the  boy 
would  not  regard  the  position,  and  snapped  the  strait  official 
bonds,  as  he  had  done  a  hundred  times,  by  one  means  or 


THE    LAST   ASSAULT  603 

another,  in  the  more  generous  flow  of  his  existence,  Lncien 
accepted  the  overture  half  sniihng,  as  one  accepts  the  caress 
of  an  unmanageable  puppy  when  training  it  for  serious  uses. 
He  did  not  believe  that  it  was  more  than  the  overflowing 
spirits  of  youth — he  would  not  believe  it.  Why  then  now, 
of  a  sudden  on  a  February  afternoon,  should  he  change 
his  course? 

He  gave  himself  no  reason  for  making  a  difference,  only 
he  made,  tacitly,  as  he  clasped  Antoine's  light  little  frame 
closely  to  his  side.  He  did  not  want  him  to  pass  out  of 
sight,  so  much  he  knew.  He  would  admit  no  excuse,  how- 
ever plausible,  for  Jem's  presumption.  Something  in  him 
had  altered,  some  layer  had  moved,  when  Savigny  disclosed 
that  this  boy  he  had  called  pupil  was  to  be  taken  from  him ; 
but  he  refused  to  sort  the  issues  in  his  confused  resentment, 
or  to  discover  why  he  sufit'ered.  He  could  not  use  him  fur- 
ther— his  uses  for  the  time  were  spent ;  but  he  needed  him 
to  look  upon,  to  feel  that,  through  him,  the  strong  spirit  of 
the  Lemaures  had  a  hand  upon  the  future  still,  and  to  prove 
by  the  way  Lucien's  own  value  and  that  of  his  work.  It  was 
impossible,  absurdly  impossible  to  picture  the  round  of 
common  life  again,  without  the  light  of  the  constant  hope 
he  represented. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  admit  the  greater  need,  or  con- 
fess that  the  real  suffering  he  had  been  facing  for  weeks  past 
was  that  of  the  childless  man :  that  some  of  his  impatience 
with  an  otherwise  perfect  wife  was  an  impatience  as  old  as 
wedlock,  and  so  as  old  as  creation.  Lucien  would  even  less 
think  of  admitting  that  in  the  selfishness  of  his  suffering 
he  had  let  his  wife's  quick  sensibility  perceive  his  resent- 
ment, and  that  he  was  aware,  miserably  and  shamefully 
aware,  of  having  made  her  suffer  too.  While  he  possessed 
his  father,  he  had  felt  that  other  loss  much  less.  To  be  a 
son  had  contented  him,  in  the  definite  degree  to  which  it 
contents  his  race.  But  he  was  not  exempt  from  the  natural 
wish  to  be  a  father  too ;  and  of  late  the  society  of  his  mar- 
ried brothers,  their  talk  of  their  children  and  children's 


6o4  SUCCESSION 

futures,  had  entered  and  embittered  him  faintly  unaware. 
He  had  drawn  ever  further  from  Cecile,  and  further  into  his 
shell.  His  pretence  of  an  absorption  in  the  records  of  his 
father's  fame,  proffered  as  satisfaction  and  consolation, 
had  been  a  mere  cloak  for  his  personal  misery.  Nor  would 
he  face  his  wife's  supposition  that  he  was  ill,  though  he 
felt  so  at  times ;  for  that  would  have  drawn  more  attention 
upon  him. 

"  You  are  breathless,"  he  said,  with  reproach,  doubtful 
from  the  short  rapid  pants  if  the  boy  were  not  crying,  for  he 
was  reclining  along  the  chair  with  his  face  concealed.  "  You 
exaggerate  things  so  absurdly.  There  is  no  need  to  half 
crush  your  relations  after  an  absence  of  thirty  hours." 

"  Yes,  there  is  need,"  the  boy  asserted,  turning  his  head. 
"  I  must,  when  one  sits  here  on  Sunday  afternoon.  I  al- 
ways did,  I  believe."  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  lifted  his 
brows.    "  I  expect  this — is  only — my  heart." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  said  Lucien,  smoothing  back  his 
hair.  "  That  has  always  been  an  uncomfortable  com- 
modity, now  more  than  ever.  Keep  quiet  now  a  little,  and 
be  wise.  You  can  practise  signs  as  answer  to  my  questions, 
that  will  be  quite  sufficient.  Were  both  the  Lorbeers  there  ? 
Good.  Did  you  make  my  excuses  nicely  to  Madame?  Did 
you  behave  properly  with  the  prince  ?  " 

Antoine  became  articulate  suddenly.  "  He  said  he  had 
seen  me  before.  I  began  to  remember  when  he  talked  about 
it." 

"  Tiens !    You  have  no  business  to  forget  princes." 

"  I  was  about  six,"  said  Antoine. 

"Ah?    Not  a  concert  then." 

"  Yes,  a  concert.  Grandpapa's  concert  at  St  Aviel,  a 
quantity  of  years  ago.  But  I  remember  it."  He  squeezed  up 
his  eyes,  reflecting. 

"  Had  you  pleased  him,  at  six?"  said  Lucien,  smiling. 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  think  he  had  not  noticed  me  much. 
Maman " 

"  Enough,"  said  Lucien.     "  You  are  talking,  which  was 


THE   LAST    ASSAULT  605 

not  permitted.  To  continue — had  the  Lorbeers  come  direct 
from  Reuss?  Then  Duchatel  was  content — did  not  regret 
the  journey  ?  Excellent.  Will  Reuss  reach  London  in  time 
for  thee  next  week?  Thou  wilt  see  him  then,  that  is  well. 
What  of  the  manuscript  he  discovered — did  you  have  a  sight 
of  it?" 

Another  vigorous  nod,  and  then  an  outburst  not  to  be 
contained,  "  It  was  p^^rfectly  easy  to  read,  really,  only 
dirty  at  the  edges,  and  torn  in  one  place.  It  is  not  a  sketch 
for  the  concerto — they  are  all  so  stupid !  It  is  like  it,  the 
shape,  but  a  better  thing — ^good.  The  key  is  different,  too. 
I  found  the  place  in  the  concerto,  and  made  Lorbeer  see — 
he  said  I  was  right.  I  said  I  would  copy  it  for  Duchatel 
— there  will  be  time " 

"  And  when,  if  you  please  ?  "  said  Lucien. 

"  Oh,  Tuesday.  We  only  start  at  five  to  Amiens,  selon 
papa.  He  has  to  stay  there  for  the  night,  he  says.  It  is 
extraordinarily  slow  how  we  get  to  England — silly." 

"  Good,"  said  Lucien.  "  It  is  your  father's  turn  to  be 
silly  now." 

"  I  did  not  tell  him  I  thought  so,"  said  Antoine,  with  a 
sliding  glance.    "  I  do,  to  you — hein  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  will  come  in  time,"  said  his  uncle. 

"I  think  it  will  not.  Papa  is  rather  strong,  do  you  see? 
Enfin — this  thing  must  be  copied — I  can  always  do  the  dirty 
ones — yes."  His  eyes  followed  his  uncle's  to  the  pile  of 
manuscripts  on  the  table,  the  majority  transcribed  in  a 
large  rapid  childish  hand.  "  I  can  go  quicker  now,"  said 
Antoine,    "  Mon  Dieu,  how  slow  I  used  to  be — and  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  me?" 

"  No.  .  ,  .  This  one  will  not  be  long,  for  I  have  read 
it  carefully  already.  Grandpapa  just  wrote  it  quickly  one 
day — long  before  the  concerto — and  lost  it,  do  you  see?  He 
lost  it  among  Fritz's  things.  It  is  Fritz's  fault  altogether. 
I  shall  tell  him  about  that  in  London." 

"  Thou  art  warm,"  said  Lucien,  amused. 


6o6  SUCCESSION 

"  Well,  it  is  a  beautiful  thing.  I  could  have  played  it.  I 
shall." 

"  Thou  wilt  not." 

"  Good — then  nobody  else  is  to.  Not  Lemonski.  Not 
you !  "  He  laughed  his  quick  laugh,  flashing  another  look 
at  his  uncle. 

"  I  could  not,"  said  Lucien,  "  if  it  is  as  intricate  as  the 
second,  which  you  played  lately  with  Wurst." 

"  It  is  not  quite  so  awful,  but  hard.  They  are  all  so  hard 
— but  not  all  beautiful  to  hear." 

"  Antoine !  " 

He  laughed  again,  more  naturally  and  triumphantly  every 
time.  He  was  pleased  by  the  marked  success  of  his  raid 
on  this  troublesome  relative.  It  had  all  gone  better  than  he 
hoped.  "  Voyons !  "  he  said,  seizing  Lucien's  arm  confiden- 
tially.    "  I  want  to  talk  about  something.     May  I — now  ?  " 

"  Have  you  not  been  talking  ?  My  dear,  you  had  better 
wait  ten  minutes,  and  consider  it,  whatever  it  is.  Waiting 
hurts  nobody." 

"  But  it  does !  I  have  considered  for  hours — all  the  way. 
I  cannot  any  more.  You  will  let  me  talk  and  finish  now, 
it  is  not  long."  He  sat  up,  and  ran  a  hand  inside  his  coat. 
"  It  is  only  these  letters,"  he  said.  "  Mine.  I  am  tired  of 
reflecting  which  to  give  that  Victor — perhaps  none,  I  do 
not  know.  You  had  better  read  them  all."  He  packed  the 
little  bundle  of  papers  into  his  uncle's  hand,  and  then,  quite 
unconsciously,  folded  his  arms.  The  coup  was  made — 
nothing  could  be  clearer.  Long  and  really  tormenting  re- 
flections had  resulted  in  this. 

Lucien  looked  from  the  letters  to  his  face.  The  actor  on 
his  chair  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  cast  down.  The  effort  had 
not  been  without  its  penalty.  "  My  dear,"  he  began,  em- 
barrassed, and  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Please,"  said  the  boy  sharply.  "  It  is  better.  There 
are  two  he  wrote  there — short  ones — about  you.  Do  you 
see  ?  " 

"  Only  two !  "  was  Lucien's  thought.     "  And  short " 


THE   LAST   ASSAULT  607 

"  Of  course  Victor  will  not  have  the  short  ones,"  said 
Antoine,  striving  for  clear  and  steady  speech  on  this  in- 
credibly important  matter.  "  I  think  there  is  only  one  of 
the  others  he  must  have — not  even  all  of  that.  It  was  when 
I  was  very  unhappy  once  in  England.  Shall  I  show  you 
that?  "  He  grasped  the  packet  and  began  to  unstrap  it  with 
restless  fingers.  "  It  is  beautiful,"  he  said  gently,  "  for  the 
book." 

Lucien  did  not  move.  "  When  were  you  unhappy — with 
us?" 

"  No,  no — before.  The  other  house.  Not  one  of  the 
school  ones  either,  because  then  I  was  working  with  you, 
and  so  he  wrote  differently  to  me." 

"  How  differently?  " 

"  Not  so  much — like  he  talked.     Not  so  near  to  me 

Mon  Dieu,  it  is  hard — will  you  not  read?  When  I  worked 
with  you,  he  was  your  father,  do  you  see?  In  one  of  the 
little  letters — the  angriest  one — he  says  that." 

"  They  are  angry  ?  "  said  Lucien,  ever  more  astonished. 
"With  whom?" 

"  W^ith  zi'homf  "  He  laughed  briefly  again.  "  I  wonder," 
said  Antoine,  pausing,  "  if  you  will  find  it  funny,  how  he 
writes  to  me.  Fritz  did.  Fritz  said  he  would  not  have  be- 
lieved those  were  his.  He  called  him  gentle.  Grandpapa 
gentle !    Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Invariably,"  declared  the  son. 

Antoine  sighed.  "  Good :  then  you  will  find  the  short  ones 
curious  too.    Of  course  I  knew  how  it  was ;  he  had  not  much 

time  for  me  then.     I  told  Fritz — it  was  because "     He 

gasped. 

"  See,  my  child — make  less  effort,"  Lucien  broke  in. 
"  You  had  far  better  leave  it.  You  ought  not  to  tell  me  this, 
in  any  case.  That  is  the  simple  fact.  I  shall  not  read  these 
letters,  Antoine.    I  refuse  to." 

"  No,  no,  you  do  not  refuse ! — not  noiv.  They  are  in  your 
hand."    He  shut  the  hand,  and  was  silent  perforce  for  some 


6o8  SUCCESSION 

instants.  "  If  I  told  Reuss,"  he  resumed  more  steadily, 
"  you  can  hear  the  same  things." 

"  It  does  not  follow,"  said  Lucien.  But  he  was  worsted, 
for  the  boy  had  leant  and  kissed  him,  in  his  eagerness  to  be 
relieved  of  the  strain. 

"It  does  follow,  now,  hein?  Listen.  I  told  Fritz,  the 
short  letters  were  impatient  like  that,  because  I  was  not  quite 
— ever — what  he  liked  in  music.  I  was  different."  An  im- 
pressive pause. 

''  He  left  you  great  independence,"  argued  Lucien.  "  He 
boasted  of  it.    More  than  his  own  children  ever  had." 

"  No,  he  did  not.  Pardon,"  Antoine  added  hastily.  "  Of 
course  I  said  what  I  liked,  everything  that  I  thought  of, 
to  him.  Not  in  the  music.  He  could  not  bear  me  to  be  dif- 
ferent— only  I  zvas."  After  which  passionate  point  he  added 
softly :    "  But  often  I  liked  to  play  according  to  him." 

"  According  to  him,"  Lucien  muttered. 

"  Yes ;  at  the  Central  I  did — you  remember  ?  He  liked 
that.  And  at  other  times  I  have  done  it.  It  is  a  little  amus- 
ing." He  added,  with  a  sudden  persuasive  smile :  "  You 
yourself  liked  me  when  I  did." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  know  you  preferred  to  play  according  to  your- 
self." 

"  Yes — all  the  modern  things.  Grandpapa  hated  them 
really." 

"  He  did  not  hate  you,  my  little  one." 

*'  No — but  I  was  different."  He  came  back  to  that.  "  I 
am  not  sure,"  he  added  lower,  with  a  fearful  frown,  "  grand- 
papa would  have  liked — ever — how  I  really  was." 

"  Antoine !    You  imply  he  did  not  know  you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  was  silent,  biting  his  lip.  "  When 
I  was  young,  of  course,"  he  said  lightly. 

"  Since  when  have  you  ceased  to  be  young?  " 

"  Please  understand.  I  was  careful,  for  instance,  this 
year:  I  thought  I  was.  I  played — I  wrote  carefully  for 
him.  I  showed  him  a  few  things.  This  one  to-morrow  he 
would  have  liked."    He  bit  his  lip  again.    "  But,  you  see," 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  609 

he  finished,  "  he  did  not  hke  nie  so  much."  I  lis  grasp,  and 
intense  gaze  on  Lucien,  showed  he  had  scored  a  point. 

"  I  see!  But  I  see  no  such  thing.  Of  all  the  incredible — 
what  am  I  to  say  ?  "  It  was  done.  The  guardian  was  spurred 
at  last,  and  to  a  kind  of  indignation.  He  took  the  boy  by 
the  arms,  encountered  his  gaze  firmly,  though  he  felt  curi- 
ously desperate  while  he  did  so.  "  He  loved  you,  my  dear 
child — more,  not  less,  to  the  end.  Had  you  doubted  that 
really?  He  needed  you  as  well.  He  was  longing  for  you, 
nobody  so  much,  throughout  those  last  days.  He  was  watch- 
ing for  you  to  enter — even  when  he  could  not  speak." 

The  boy's  lips  parted :  no  spoken  word  came  through. 
But  Lucien  had  his  real  attention,  the  core  of  his  strange 
little  mind,  wdiich  he  had  so  often  manoeuvred  to  capture, 
and  failed.  It  w^as  burning  him  like  a  point  of  fire — of  light 
rather,  for  he  had  with  it  the  full  stare  of  the  wonderful 
dark  eyes :  enveloping  him,  drinking  him  in,  almost  alarming 
him  by  their  intensity.  It  struck  Lucien  oddly  that  Antoine 
had  never  looked  at  him  fully  before.  He  had  never  yet 
managed  to  engage  his  interest  sufficiently. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  quietly.  "  It  is  your  turn  to  listen  now, 
and  mine  to  speak.  I  have,  and  have  had,  several  things  to 
say.  First,  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  know,  my  father  was 
not  displeased  by  your  last  letter.    He  never  received  it." 

That  relieved  him,  certainly.  His  lips  twitched  into  a 
smile,  though  his  eyes  did  not  move. 

"  It  is  as  though  he  admired  me  for  speaking,"  thought 
Lucien  hopelessly,  and  laid  a  hand  across  the  eyes.  "  That 
will  not  do,"  he  commented,  smiling.  "  Thou  are  greedy, 
and  I  have  to  choose.  I  will  say  what  I  can  of  it,  and  while 
I  can.    Sit  there  on  the  stool." 

He  pushed  him,  and  the  boy  slid  down  and  obeyed,  with 
the  most  anxious  docility.  No  more  was  said  of  the  letter, 
but  the  elder  man  continued  speaking  steadily,  barely  in- 
terrupted, for  an  hour  almost.  At  moments  he  had  to  stop, 
but  on  the  whole,  speaking  of  those  last  conversations,  to  his 
auditor,  was  easier  than  he  could  have  imagined.    The  boy 


6io  SUCCESSION 

was  closely  attentive  always,  quiet  and  tearless,  leaning  on 
his  knee. 

The  odd  thing  was,  he  seemed  on  the  defensive,  while  the 
narrator  attacked.  He  had  guarded  himself,  Lucien  found; 
made  in  advance  the  whole  case  out  for  himself — not  to  his 
satisfaction,  but  simply  for  his  safety.  It  was  the  philosophy 
of  suffering,  mature  suffering:  that  necessary  armour  against 
the  sharp  disappointment  and  grinding  delays  of  our  fate, 
with  which  the  majority  are  ill  protected,  when  half  their 
lives  are  spent.  So  much  for  the  experience  of  those  two 
months.  It  was  that  conception  of  age,  which  Antoine  had 
been  driven  to  perfect  and  study,  which  he  held  with  his 
young  hand  like  a  shield,  against  a  whole  array  of  occur- 
rences that  had  torn  his  heart,  and  tormented  his  understand- 
ing. Lucien  found  himself  defending  his  father,  almost 
angrily,  against  the  charges  implied.  It  was  a  position  he 
could  not  have  credited,  an  hour  before,  had  it  been  fore- 
told him.  Yet  he  realised  one  thing  completely,  through  his 
helpless  indignation,  how  Cecile  was  amply  justified  in  her 
contention  that  it  was  necessary  to  this  boy  to  understand. 
To  remain  in  darkness,  or  even  dimness  of  mind  upon  these 
central  questions  of  living  drove  him  frantic.  It  was  that, 
and  that  alone,  which  had  threatened  his  equilibrium.  He 
had  regained  his  balance  completely,  but  with  a  struggle  of 
spirit  that  had  almost  worn  out  the  protesting  body  attached. 
He  was  mentally  tired  now ;  ready  to  hear  all ;  eager  a  little 
to  hear  certain  things,  to  supplement  and  correct  the  struc- 
ture he  had  originated.  But  it  was  late — how  late  Lucien 
saw  with  astonished  self-reproach.  Antoine  came  back  on 
the  road  to  meet  him,  out  of  kindness  to  hear  his  case.  For 
there  was  no  doubt  that  at  one  point  in  the  long  strife  of 
mind  Lucien's  own  proceedings  had  tried  the  boy's  toler- 
ance of  life's  puzzles  too  far,  and  he  had  been  condemned 
and  cast  aside. 

Antoine  gathered  and  sorted  his  uncle's  statements  now, 
as  though  eager  above  all  to  keep  the  issues  clear.  "  He  did 
not  know  I  had  rate,"  he  murmured,  "  or  that  Jacques  had 


THE   LAST   ASSAULT  6ii 

found  my  violin.  He  did  not  trouble  about  those  hard  con- 
certs, only  about  Ribiera — yes.  It  was  quite  a  few  things 
that  he  knew,  because  he  was  getting  tired.  He  was  tired 
of  all  that,  I  believe." 

"  Will  you  kindly  cease  believing,  on  your  own  account," 
snapped  Lucien,  "  since  I  know.  My  father's  mind  was 
not  tired — or  imperceptibly.  It  was  clear  to  the  end.  You 
and  your  future  were  his  central  interest,  as  for  years  past 
you  have  been.  You  cannot  feign  not  to  know  it,  Antoine. 
How  could  you  imagine  that  would  change  ?  " 

Antoine  dropped  his  eyes.  "  It  was  only — Philippe  said — 
he  had  forgotten  us.  He  was  thinking  about  your  things — 
before  he  was  quite  so  old." 

"  He  forgot  nothing,"  retorted  Lucien.  "  Philippe  may 
have  escaped  his  attention  occasionally — you  could  not.  You 
were  the  centre  of  it,  since  his  interest  was  in  music.  You 
represented  that  side  and  the  future — the  only  important 
thing." 

It  was  useless.  Antoine's  reason  was  not  persuaded  com- 
pletely, though  he  looked  "  polite  "  and  receptive.  "  Je 
croyais — a  la  fin — il  se  passait  de  ga,"  he  murmured,  with 
gentle  obstinacy.    "  He  was  very  old." 

Lucien  was  driven  to  be  personal.  "  Your  photograph 
with  the  violin  was  before  his  eyes — under  his  hands,  to  the 
end." 

"  That  reminded  him "  said  Antoine. 

"  It  did  not  remind !  It  replaced  you — served  him  ill  in- 
stead of  your  presence.  He  wanted  yourself,  my  little  one, 
how  can  you  not  believe  it  ?  Only  two  months  before  he  had 
held  you  to  his  side.  Yes,  I  had  rather  you  cried  " — as  the 
boy  swerved  away.  "  Do  you  think  he  did  not  love  you 
then — at  parting,  for  instance?" 

"  I  am  not  crying,"  he  said,  with  almost  equal  impatience. 
"  I  wish  I  had  come  with  you — that  is  all." 

"  All  of  us  will  always  wish  it,"  said  Lucien  warmly,  and, 
what  is  strange,  he  believed  that  he  had  always  wished. 
There  intruded  nowhere  amid  the  kindly  regret  of  his  tone. 


6i2  SUCCESSION 

the  vision  of  a  deliberately  delayed  telegram,  of  a  message 
sufficient  in  itself  to  overset  all  the  shadowy  excuses,  all 
the  visionary  bonds  that  had  held  this  boy  far  from  that 
death-bed  that  was  his  right.  It  is  so  easy,  once  we  permit 
a  confusion  of  thought,  to  blur  our  fundamental  motives. 
Lucien's  were  successfully  blurred  now,  even  if  they  had 
ever  been  quite  clear.  Occasionally  he  was  attacked  by  dis- 
comfort in  this  interview,  by  impatience  more  often :  never 
by  shame.  The  generations  guard  their  rights  too  valiantly 
for  shame  to  be  frequent  between  them,  even  with  the  finest 
minds.  Lucien  had  a  good  working  intelligence,  but  not 
sufficiently  fine  to  overthrow  such  a  well-proven  convention 
as  his  essential  superiority,  in  standing  and  dignity,  to  this 
frail,  thoughtful  boy. 

His  impatience,  cropping  out  as  we  have  shown  at  in- 
tervals, was  soothed  by  the  exercise  of  talking  from  this 
platform  in  his  own  consciousness.  He  had  barely  any 
impatience  left,  only  a  little  amusement,  when  his  auditor, 
being  tired,  went  to  sleep.  He  went  to  sleep  suddenly  and 
without  warning,  somewhat  as  his  old  father  had  done 
during  the  latter  days  of  his  weakness,  while  Lucien's  vigor- 
ous mind,  close  at  his  side,  was  working  along  its  accus- 
tomed paths.  There  was  an  odd  resemblance,  recurring, 
ever  in  these  slight  ways,  between  Antoine's  natural  habits, 
and  those  of  his  grandfather.  They  took  Lucien  by  sur- 
prise, in  the  same  fashion.  The  sensation  of  a  little  jolt  in 
his  ideas  was  not  unpleasant,  and  he  had  grown  used  to  it 
during  the  years  past.  He  smiled  now,  when  the  phenom- 
enon occurred,  quite  kindly,  interrupting  a  speech  that,  for 
fluency  and  reason  combined,  had  pleased  his  own  ear.  He 
turned  the  boy's  head  with  his  hand  to  make  certain  of  the 
fact,  for  Antoine's  head  had  been  resting  on  his  knee  dur- 
ing the  latter  speeches,  and  his  retorts  had  grown  steadily 
fewer,  and  less  seriously  to  be  regarded  from  Lucien's  point 
of  view.  Being  convinced  of  the  phenomenon,  he  raised 
his  nephew,  with  the  exertion  of  very  little  effort,  for  he 
was  decidedly  lighter  to  handle  than  to  controvert;    and 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  613 

laid  him,  with  the  most  benevolent  attention,  on  the  couch. 
The  boy  only  roused  enough  to  curl  himself  comfortably  in 
his  fashion,  and  uttered  no  thanks  for  the  assistance.  For 
the  moment,  the  moral  effort  of  which  he  was  capable, 
which  Frau  Lorbeer's  happy  influence  and  the  bright  sun 
had  encouraged  and  formed,  was  spent.  Nature,  who 
watches  her  nearest  children  kindly,  supplied  him  with  sleep 
to  fill  the  vacuum  of  energy.  Antoine  did  not  think  of 
refusing  such  a  benefit,  when  it  ffell  from  heaven  unasked 
upon  him — that  was  all. 

"  He  is  tired  easily,"  said  Lucien  to  his  wife,  when  she 
entered  later  and  stopped  surprised  near  the  couch.  He 
spoke  in  his  full  natural  tone,  and  a  manner  of  resentment 
she  recognised.    "  How  anyone  can  imagine  he  is  fit,  in  that 

state,  to  support  a  long  journey "     He  rustled  a  letter 

sheet  over  sharply,  to  conclude  the  sentence. 

Madame  said  nothing,  but  stood  with  her  back  to  him, 
stripping  off  her  gloves.  The  miracle  had  been  worked  in 
her  absence,  she  saw  that ;  and  she  could  guess  who  had 
done  it.  She  bent  a  little,  when  the  gloves  were  off,  and 
took  the  boy's  long  fingers  in  hers,  brushing  her  lips  and 
cheek  lightly  against  them,  and  restoring  them  carefully  to 
their  position  by  his  side. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  said  Lucien,  as  she  did  not 
move. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said.  "  I  respect  the  unconscious."  Her 
tone  was  odd,  but  he  did  not  observe  it,  thinking  of  what 
he  held. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  said  Lucien. 

"  I  went  on  with  Maman  to  pay  a  visit." 

"  I  expected  you  sooner.    Did  you  go  far?  " 

"  Only  to  Weber,  at  Neuilly." 

His  head  turned  sharply.  "  Cecile,  why  do  you  stand 
there?    Are  you  not  well?  " 

"  As  you  see,"  she  said,  and  glanced  at  him  just  smiling. 
She    was    worn    and    hollowed    a    trifle,    and   there    were 


6i4  SUCCESSION 

circles  round  her  eyes ;  but  her  tone  in  speaking  was  light 
and  crisp  as  ever.  ''  We  had  some  conversation,"  she  in- 
formed him.  "  Weber's  manner  is  singularly  attractive,  is 
it  not?" 

That  she  had  spent  a  guinea  on  her  conversation,  she 
omitted  to  mention.  She  frequently  omitted  such  trifles 
with  Lucien,  having  her  own  money,  and  being  well  used, 
in  her  own  affairs,  to  judging  for  herself.  In  his,  when  he 
asked  it,  she  gave  him  her  judgment  too,  and  she  accepted 
his  unsolicited  opinions  on  her  own  matters  with  ready 
charm  and  sympathy.  The  other  matter  she  left  out  of  the 
account  was  that  Weber's  attractive  manner  had  snapped 
in  twain  a  hope  she  had  been  cherishing  for  long,  despite 
her  mother's  discreet  discouragement.  Very  fortunately, 
Lucien  was  interested  and  distracted  by  the  happy  inter- 
vention of  this  boy,  who  had  solved  half  the  domestic 
problem  for  her.  She  was  profoundly  grateful  to  Antoine. 
She  felt  she  could  manage,  now. 

"  Come  and  look  at  this,"  said  Lucien.  "  He  will  not 
wake  at  present.    We  may  speak," 

"  More  letters  ?  "  she  queried,  turning.  "  Which  are 
these?  " 

"  Read  that,"  he  said,  and  handed  it. 

"  Ah — the  baby  has  given  you  his  ?  But  that  is  charm- 
ing, Lucien." 

"  Very  charming.     Read  it,  and  tell  me  the  author." 

"But — whose  could  it  be  but  one?  It  is  not  signed?" 
She  turned  it,  for  it  was  a  mere  half-sheet  of  notepaper, 
carelessly  torn  off.  No  signature,  indeed,  unless  a  scrawl 
stood  for  an  L,  at  the  close.  She  turned  back  the  page, 
and  glanced  up  doubtfully.  "  Do  you  think  I  had  really 
better,  Lucien?  " 

"  He  offered  it  to  me.  You  and  I  are  the  same.  It  is — 
to  me — a  singular  thing."  He  walked  slowly  away  from 
her,  back  turned,  towards  the  window. 

Madame  read  the  short  letter,  which  bore  every  sign  of 
hasty  writing,  her  delicate  brows  rising  all  the  way.     She 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  615 

reached  the  end,  looked  at  Lucien's  back,  and  read  it  again. 
Then  she  tossed  it  aside  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  A  general's  directions  on  the  field,"  she  said,  "  that  is 
all.    Those  are  often  sharp,  of  necessity." 

"  But — look  there."  He  nodded,  and  she  followed  his 
look  to  the  boy  on  the  couch. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  it  would  not  have  struck  me  to 
be  sharp  to  that — had  I  not  known  what  it  contained.  But 
remember,  what  it  contains  was  the  essential  of  life  to  your 
father." 

"But  it  is  cutting — unkind.     Is  it  not?" 

"  In  a  fashion,"  she  agreed.     "  It  is  amazingly  intimate." 

"Intimate?" 

"  But  yes.  Evidently,  they  had  a  language.  The  child 
understood,  receiving  it,  probably.    Are  the  rest  the  same  ?  " 

"  What  he  calls  the  short  ones,  without  exception.  Know- 
ing what  he  was,  and  that  boy's  susceptibility,  I  could  often 
call  the  phrases  unfeeling." 

Cecile  was  thinking  rapidly,  fingering  the  sheets,  though 
she  read  no  more.  "  Good  heavens,"  she  murmured,  *'  how 
anxious  he  must  have  been." 

"  Anxious  ?    About  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  suppose — he  was  the  last." 

"  And  we  had  all  failed  him,  hey  ?  "  said  Lucien, 

"  Well,  be  honest — had  you  not  ?  Think  of  Marcel,  cut 
off  at  that  age.  Henriette,  with  her  extraordinary  child- 
hood, and  its  conventional  close.  Bernard  and  Andre — 
the  excellent  folk.  Yourself — most  excellent  and  hopeless." 
She  kissed  him,  having  reached  his  side.  "  It  seems  to  me 
very  simple,  Lucien.  He  had  raised,  perfected  a  standard 
all  that  long  life,  and  this  child  had  got  to  touch  it,  that 
was  all," 

"  It  troubles  me,  personally,"  explained  Lucien.  "  I  was 
severe  in  my  methods,  you  observe,  Cecile,  to  counteract 
my  father.  He  spoilt  the  boy — I  always  said  so.  I  had 
every  reason  to  think  it.     His  actions  and  these  letters  do 


6i6  SUCCESSION 


I 


not  agree.  If  you  had  ever  seen  him  with  that  baby — in 
this  room !    It  is  another  man." 

"And  one  you  had  not  known?  But,  my  dear  Lucien, 
you  quarrel  with  the  essence  of  genius — that  is  what  it  is. 
It  is  never  a  changeless  shield — it  alters  with  every  breath 
of  life.  I  mean — heaven  save  my  images! — it  represents 
growth,  not  stability.  His  treatment  of  you  was  old  habit. 
His  treatment  of  Antoine  started  at  a  later  date — do  you 
imagine  his  ideas  had  wearied  ?  By  that  time,  he  demanded 
more." 

"  He  demanded  what  he  could  get  perhaps,"  muttered 
Lucien.  "  But  I  do  not  like  it."  His  eyes  dwelt  on  the 
boy.    "  It  seems  unjust." 

"  Not  that,"  she  retorted.  "  Anything  but  that.  Look  at 
the  return,  this  child's  feeling  for  him.  That  is  the  lasting 
thing,  the  sufficient  answer.  Lucien — forgive  my  curiosity 
— where  are  the  companions  to  these?  " 

"  The  companions  ?  " 

"  Antoine's — to  your  father." 

"  Mon  Dieu,  I  do  not  know.  Torn,  probably.  Father 
never  apologised,  beyond  the  first,  for  tearing.  He  could 
not  bear  an  accumulation  of  paper,  or  whatever  else.  He 
would  probably  have  been  vexed  with  us  for  preserving 
these.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  It  is  interesting,"  she  said  gently.  "  This  is  dated  while 
he  was  with  us,  you  see — the  first  summer.  The  period  also 
of  his  fiercest  battles  with  you,  my  friend." 

"  There  are  others,"  said  Lucien  suddenly,  "  some  a  good 
deal  more  elaborate.  There  is  this  above  all  which  Antoine 
indicated  as  suitable  to  the  Memoir.  He  is  right,  and  I 
have  extracted  it  for  Duchatel.  This  is  my  father's  self, 
delicate,  discerning,  cordial ;  as  we  knew  him,  in  youth ;  as 
he  must  have  been  sometimes,  to  this  child  in  exile — I  can- 
not, I  will  not  believe  he  did  not  wish  to  be."  Lucien  was 
singularly  disturbed  by  the  fragmentary  letters.  He  was 
clinging  to  the  other  now,  as  for  protection. 

"  What  date  does  that  one  belong  to?  "  his  wife  asked. 


THE    LAST   ASSAULT  617 

"This?  His  first  months  in  England.  I  always  guessed 
he  was  wretched  with  his  father's  people.  This  is  addressed 
to  him  by  name,  and  signed;  it  is  a  letter  in  short.  Those 
are " 

"  Enclosures,  hein  ?  "  she  said.  "  Sent  under  cover  to 
you." 

"  That  is  what  pains  me.  To  think  he  could  have  shrunk, 
ever,  when  I  handed  him  his  share." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  shrank,"  she  said  drily.  "  The  sheet 
you  gave  me  read  like  an  answer  to  one  of  yours." 

"Do  not!"  he  said  quite  vivaciously;  and  she  lifted  a 
hand,  for  the  sleeper  stirred. 

"  We  had  better  discuss  elsewhere,"  said  Cecile,  her  dry 
tone  softening.  "  Sometimes  I  think  we  have  spoken  of  it 
all  enough.  A  quoi  bon,  after  all,  so  long  as  one  living  holds 
the  clue?  In  two  days  we  shall  be  free  of  it,  and  all  such 
mysteries." 

"  You  sound  heartless,"  said  he,  with  his  customary  sober 
sharpness,  though  he  was  holding  her  closely  to  him  while 
he  spoke. 

"  Perhaps  I  am — Dieu  sait."  She  gazed  up  at  him, 
leaning  her  head  back.  "Do  you  want  Antoine  to  stay? 
He  is  a  nice  boy — kind.  He  has  never  failed  to  consider  us, 
and  it  is  a  great  trouble  to  him.  It  was  amiable  to  lend  you 
these  letters — charming,  as  I  said  :  and  brave.  Why  should 
he  do  it,  Lucien?    We  are  not  his  affair," 

"  Psst !  "  he  said,  laughing  low  as  though  enjoying  it. 
She  was  speaking  in  the  aloof,  cool  manner,  with  the  snow- 
soft  tone,  that  was  most  flattering  to  his  ears  when  she  was 
in  his  arms.  The  little  pretence  of  distance  he  found  de- 
licious— Cecile's  self — when  his  senses  and  strong  arm 
proved  that  she  was  close.  He  was  wondering,  with  the 
wonder  of  one  awakened,  how  he  could  ever  have  let  the 
distance  become  more  than  a  pretence — when  she  disturbed 
him. 

"Let  him  go,  hein?"  she  said,  on  a  last  light  breath. 
"  He  is  not  ours." 


6i8  SUCCESSION  ] 

"  How  dare  you  ? "  he  muttered  almost  furiously. 
"  Daring  "  was  the  question,  for  she  had  evidently  defied 
herself  as  well  as  him  to  speak.  Lucien  seized  her  instantly, 
for  he  felt  her  muscles  failing,  held  her  so  for  a  second, 
and  then  laid  her  in  his  chair.  That  Cecile,  with  her  keen, 
careless  pride,  should  have  spoken  it — that  was  what  stirred 
him,  and  this  time  to  real  shame.  It  was  sheer  valour,  the 
courage  that  slays  pride,  and  which  between  intimates  is 
the  more  notable. 

His  dog-like  attentions  to  her  during  the  next  few  minutes 
made  Madame  laugh,  though  her  lips  were  white,  and 
though  she  made  no  attempt  to  answer  his  incoherent  mut- 
ters of  reproach.  It  was  the  last  of  her  devices  to  end  a 
misunderstanding  she  felt  to  be  ridiculous,  this  one  of 
speaking  out:  a  desperate  one  rather,  for,  after  all,  she 
was  not  a  man.  She  had  hurt  herself  somewhat  more  than 
she  expected  in  the  process,  but,  judging  by  the  lines  of 
Lucien's  face  bent  to  her,  she  supposed  she  had  done  well 
to  be  direct.  She  smiled,  gaily  almost,  but  she  was  quite 
tired  of  him;  and,  like  Antoine,  she  could  have  sought 
relief  in  sleep.  Instead  she  remained  where  he  had  put  her, 
her  wise  little  head  supported  on  one  hand,  and  let  him 
fondle  the  other,  kneeling  by  her,  and  waited  till  she  was 
better  to  dismiss  the  crisis  lightly.  It  would  be  simple 
enough,  of  course,  to  explain  away,  for  Lucien  was  accus- 
tomed to  her  fragility;  and  he  had  seen  her  collapse  for 
very  little  reason,  before  now.  She  intended  to  persuade 
him  the  reason  was  negligible — presently.  But  an  interval, 
a  pause  for  spiritual  breath-taking,  might  always  be  al- 
lowed. 

"  Imbecile,  I  am  very  well,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him 
when  the  interval  was  passed.  "  But  I  feel  capricious,  Lu- 
cien.   Two  requests." 

She  waited  long  enough  for  him  to  imply  that  the  whole 
earth  was  at  her  service:  he  would  naturally  do  that,  since 
the  one  thing  essential  to  her  happiness  was  not  on  earth. 


THE    LAST    ASSAULT  619 

"  I  wish  to  be  alone  with  Antoine  when  he  wakes.  And  I 
wish  to  read  that  letter," 

"Which  letter,  my  dear?"    He  fumbled  anxiously. 

"  The  one  written  to  the  little  boy  in  his  loneliness. 
Wild,  was  he  not — at  bay — among  those  hideous  people. 
Your  father  took  account  of  such  states.  It  would  be — 
diverting,  probably." 

Lucien  laid  the  letter  on  her  knee  and,  having  petted  her 
a  little  longer,  went.  She  did  not  stir  from  her  attitude, 
or  touch  the  sheets,  till  he  was  gone. 


FINALE 

Jacques  had  done  business  with  Ribiera  to  some  effect. 
It  is  true,  he  had  fallen  out  with  him  three  times  since  the 
occasion  when  he  appeared  in  his  elegant  salon  as  Antoine's 
ambassador,  but  he  had  played  his  cards  deftly,  and  in 
every  quarrel  he  had  scored  something  to  satisfy,  materially 
or  otherwise.  He  had  got  about  half  the  money  due  to  him 
to  begin  with,  and  so  found  courage  to  fight  for  the  rest. 
He  had  said  a  number  of  things  to  Ribiera  which  had  re- 
mained, to  use  the  phrase  of  his  nation,  "  on  his  heart " ; 
and  he  had  proved  to  his  own  contentment  that  the 
Spaniard,  owing  to  past  imprudences,  was  really  at  his  wit's 
end  for  an  adequate  leader  to  his  stringed  detachment. 
After  a  few  preliminary  skirmishes,  Jacques  was  now  en- 
gaged to  appear  at  the  two  last  concerts  in  February,  in  the 
place  that  should  have  been  Antoine's,  with  slightly  adapted 
programmes.  For  his  "  style  "  and  the  boy's  were  by  no 
means  identical ;  and  though  Ribiera  disliked  Jacques  fer- 
vently, snarling  and  spitting  cat-like  over  every  gold  piece 
he  extracted  from  his  clutches,  he  made  ample  allowance 
for  his  personality  in  his  musical  proposals ;  and  even  ad- 
mitted twice — in  involuntary  soliloquy  during  a  perform- 
ance— that  the  beast  had  improved. 

Over  the  youthful  quintet,  for  which  Ribiera  invented 
a  new  disparaging  pet  name  every  day,  and  which,  when  he 
brought  it  out  at  the  close  of  a  rehearsal,  he  called  "  our 
little  recreation,"  he  and  his  first  violin  were  at  one  another's 
throats  most  constantly.  Indeed  the  little  recreation  turned 
into  particular  recrimination  so  frequently  that  the  re- 
mainder of  the  performers  began  to  weary  of  the  struggle 
620 


FINALE  621 

— the  more  so  that  the  technical  work  of  it  was  taxing. 
The  main  point  at  issue  between  the  principals  actually 
was,  that  M.  Charretteur  could  play  his  part,  and  Senor 
Ribiera  could — or,  rather,  would — not.  When  he  grew 
tired  of  Jacques'  really  brilliant  rendering  behind  him,  he 
began  to  improvise,  with  a  smile  under  his  little  moustache, 
and  his  fijie  eyes  on  the  ceiling;  and  the  practice  ended 
forthwith  in  an  exhibition  of  vituperative  fireworks  from 
one  or  both  together.  It  was  owing  to  the  first  violin's  flat 
declaration  to  the  composer,  that  unless  he  agreed  to  attend, 
and  soon,  the  whole  thing  would  come  to  an  untimely  end, 
that  Antoine  had  attacked  his  father,  and  his  father  Sa- 
vigny,  and  the  doctor  had  capitulated  grumbling;  granting 
his  patient  leave  to  spend  one  hour,  strictly  limited,  with 
the  disputant  artists,  on  his  last  day  in  the  town. 

Antoine  went ;  and  behold — Ribiera  w^as  lamb-like ;  re- 
ceived him  in  the  beautiful  private  concert- room  like  a  duke 
in  his  own  domain ;  offered  him  a  chair  at  his  side,  with 
strings  of  silken  oratory ;  and  played  not  only  divinely,  but 
correctly,  from  first  to  last.  He  must  either  have  put  him- 
self out,  for  weeks  past,  to  act  imperfection  at  all  the  crit- 
ical points,  or  spent  the  whole  of  the  preceding  night  in 
practice,  which  Jacques  thought  the  more  probable.  The 
occasion  w^as  a  notable  one,  not  only  for  the  astonishing 
performance,  but  for  the  evident  fact  that,  for  all  the  freely 
bestowed  nicknames,  every  single  member  of  the  little  com- 
pany had  forgotten  during  the  arduous  months  of  studying 
the  work,  that  it  was  a  child's  production.  They  stared 
him  up  and  down,  when  he  first  entered,  till  even  Antoine 
began  to  feel  uncomfortably  shy ;  especially  as  the  fact  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do  already  discomposed  him.  His  host's 
fashion  of  greeting  him  was  discomposing  too. 

"You  will  play  for  us,  hein.  Monsieur?"  said  Ribiera, 
in  delicate  tones,  looking  at  the  violin  he  carried. 

"  No,  no — that  is  for  M.  Charretteur,  if  he  likes.  I  am 
sorry,"  he  added,  putting  it  down  and  dusting  his  long 
fingers  nervously.     "  I  thought  you  had  understood." 


622  SUCCESSION 

But  Ribiera  had  not  understood,  or  did  not  choose,  for 
the  moment,  to  understand.  He  drew  his  handsome  languid 
eyes  slowly  across  Antoine,  taking  in  every  detail  of  his 
altered  appearance  with  the  unerring  precision  of  a  pho- 
tographic camera.  In  so  doing  he  had  to  abandon  the  last 
remnant  of  hope  he  had  been  cherishing,  that  the  whole  of 
the  disorder  was  a  studied  farce,  and  that  he  might  still 
have  a  chance  of  humiliating  Jacques  before  the  world,  and 
so  providing  a  worthy  denouement  to  the  series  of  theatrical 
incidents  in  which  that  young  man  had  assisted.  There- 
with, he  sat  down  in  a  huff  upon  the  gilded  stool  before  his 
instrument,  crashed  a  couple  of  glittering  chords  upon  it, 
and  looked  to  either  side  with  exactly  the  air  of  a  peacock 
on  a  wall. 

Jacques'  contingent,  who  had  been  chatting  low  together, 
moved  hastily  to  their  seats  at  the  hint,  and  settled  their 
strings  with  few  further  words  among  themselves.  Down 
the  long  room,  soft-footed  servants,  in  equal  haste,  moved 
chairs  into  position  with  many  a  glance  of  excuse  toward 
their  monarch  above. 

"  Who  are  those?  "  said  Ribiera,  whirring  a  delicate  scale 
or  two,  and  addressing  nobody. 

"  My  father,"  said  Antoine,  "  and  M.  Savigny." 

"Which  is  your  father?"  said  Ribiera,  who  recollected 
Savigny  perfectly.     "  The  ugly  one  or  the  other  ?  " 

"  The  other,"  said  Antoine,  equally  audible  to  the  end  of 
the  room. 

"  He  is  not  like  you,"  said  Ribiera,  looking  not  at  Jem, 
but  about  the  walls.  "  He  looks  like  an  Alsatian,  a  stupid 
race.  Well,  we  had  better  begin  this  comedy.  How  is  one 
expected  to  finger  that  ?  " 

Antoine  swung  across  to  look.  His  manuscript  had  been 
exquisitely  copied,  doubtless  by  some  poor  scribe  on  the 
skirts  of  the  palace  staff.  He  was  quite  dazzled  by  the 
beauty  of  its  appearance  on  the  paper. 

"  I  thought  it  might  amuse  you,"  he  ventured,  one  brow 
a  little  raised. 


FINALE  623 

"  It  is  child's  play,"  said  Ribicra  haughtily.    "  Triviality." 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  assented.  *'  It  does  not  matter  so  much, 
since  there  they  have  the  themes." 

The  pianist  frowned  at  the  full  score  a  moment.  I  le  had 
been  actually  in  danger  of  wasting  his  efforts,  for  he  found 
the  passage  amusing,  as  the  child  said. 

"  Good,"  he  said  drily.  "  Messieurs,  when  you  have 
quite  concluded,  I  attend  you." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Antoine,  lifting  his  brow 
out  of  his  hands  at  the  end  of  the  movement.  "  I  am  sorry 
I  forgot  to  turn  the  last  time.  That  is — more  beautiful 
than  I  had  meant." 

Ribiera  ilicked  over  the  leaves  of  music. 

"  It  is  playable,"  he  observed.  "  We  had  better  take  the 
repeat,  since  the  reading  showed,  in  two  places,  such  de- 
grading stupidity."  In  the  two  places  named,  his  own  ef- 
fects had  been  slightly  obscured  by  the  leading  strings. 

"  Jacques  was  too  loud,"  agreed  Antoine.  "  That  is  al- 
most a  solo  opening  for  you,  if  it  is  right." 

"  Evidently  the  child  had  better  lead,"  said  Ribiera  to 
no  one. 

"  It  is  difficult,  rather,  to  be  quiet  there,"  explained  An- 
toine.    "  That  is  why.     Wait — I  am  going  to  talk  to  him." 

He  talked  to  his  strings,  most  earnestly ;  and  Jacques, 
when  appealed  to,  nodded,  and  gave  him  a  cat-like  smile. 
He  also  disturbed  the  lecturer  by  passing  the  violin,  and  An- 
toine was  forced  to  draw  back,  shake  his  head  vigorously 
twice,  shrug  to  his  ears,  and  grip  his  two  hands  behind  him, 
to  convey  beyond  further  question  his  incapacity  to  demon- 
strate. He  could,  naturally,  since  a  little  trick  of  Moricz's 
invention  would  suit  the  occasion  very  nicely — he  longed 
to ;  but  he  dared  not,  with  Savigny's  eyes  like  two  red-hot 
needles  in  his  back.  Nor  could  he  waste  minutes,  for  time 
was  short,  and  his  father's  watch  in  his  hand  beyond  a 
doubt.  Artistic  work  becomes  awkward,  with  such  an  au- 
dience.   To  get  it  done  within  the  limits  fixed  needed  con- 


624  SUCCESSION 

centration  of  every  fibre  of  nerve  and  brain ;  but  he  suc- 
ceeded, before  the  hour  struck,  in  obtaining  the  more  im- 
portant things.  When  it  was  over,  Antoine  was  rather 
thankful,  chiefly  to  escape  from  the  eyes  of  the  three  silent 
men,  who  watched  his  expressive  antics  grimly,  while  they 
obeyed  his  directions.  The  remaining  pair  he  could  handle, 
since  they  were  at  least  articulate.  Jacques  behaved  very 
well,  though  he  did  not  address  Ribiera  at  all.  Nor  of 
course  did  Ribiera  address  Jacques  directly.  He  insulted 
the  piano  rack  and  the  candlesticks,  and  echoes  came  round 
to  Jacques  behind.  Antoine,  however,  made  things  equal 
by  thanking  the  leader  first,  at  the  end,  with  glistening  eyes, 
and  a  fervour  unmistakable.  Then  he  turned  to  the  silent 
gentlemen,  and  last  to  Ribiera  at  the  piano. 

"  It  is  finished,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said.  "  They  want  me 
below  there;  and  I  leave  Paris  to-morrow.  If  there  were 
any  more  things  before " 

"  I  was  about  to  say  it,"  said  Ribiera.  "  If  there  were 
any  more  things — before  you  are  grown  up,  for  instance — 
I  should  be  gratified  to  consider  them,  any  time.  But  you 
had  better  take  ten  years'  study  before  you  write  for  the 
pianoforte  again.  A  mere  tour-de-force  like  that — are  you 
listening?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoine,  who  was  flushed  a  trifle,  as  he 
pulled  the  violin-straps  firm.  "  And  during  the  ten  years, 
if  you  please " 

"  Oh,  but  could  you  doubt  me  ?    Play  the  violin." 

"  I  am  not  permitted  to  play  at  present,"  said  Antoine, 
pronouncing  his  consonants  with  care. 

"  Tiens !  "  said  Ribiera,  as  though  he  heard  it  for  the  first 
time.    "  What  do  you  do  then — ^go  to  school  ?  " 

"  Psst!  "  said  Antoine  quietly.  He  caught  Ribiera's  eyes, 
which  were  straying  as  usual  under  heavy  lids,  gave  him  a 
direct  look  in  them,  and  offered  his  hand. 

"  Farewell,  sir,  and  my  thanks,"  he  said  in  Spanish,  and 
pronouncing  as  a  Spaniard  had  taught  him.  The  pianist's 
splendid  eyes  shot  fire,  and  he  rose.    The  four  men  behind 


FINALE  625 

him   rose  too,   immcdiLilely :    that   is   the   worst  of  courts. 
Ribiera  gave  them  one  glance. 

"  Au  revoir,  petit  incendiaire,"  he  said,  in  his  pretty 
French.  "  Bon  voyage,  et  heureux  retour.  Nous  vous  at- 
tendons, — tous." 

"  One  gets  too  easily  into  a  groove,  my  dear,"  said  Jem, 
at  a  certain  stage  of  the  solemn  comedy  enacted  in  Savigny's 
ugly  dining-room,  where  the  boy  had  been  induced  to  rest. 
"  Your  plan  is,  to  give  us  a  shock  once  a  year,  and  knock 
us  off  the  rails.  Well,  that's  all  very  well  when  you  are  of 
an  age  to  stand  it.  The  doctor  and  I  should  like  to  be 
warned  of  the  next  move,  that's  all." 

"  But " — Antoine  was  really  tired  of  them — "  there  is  all 
the  move:  just  the  music.  I  thought  it  was  understood 
between  us,  really,  about  that.  I  tried  to  show  you — do 
you  remember  ? — that  old  night  in  England ;  and  you  ap- 
peared to  understand." 

"  I'm  slow,  I  expect,"  said  Jem.  "  The  old  night,  you 
were  too  much  for  me,  probably.  You  don't  make  enough 
allowance  for  our  minds.  Music — I  think  of  a  street  organ 
at  once — don't  you,  Savigny?  Something  to  pay  a  penny 
for,  with  a  monkey;  not  a  lot  of  paper." 

"  The  monkey  is  apropos,"  said  Savigny.  "  But  some- 
times the  playing's  the  other  way.  Do  justice  to  your 
monkeys,  Edgell." 

"  Oh,  he's  not  paid  me  badly,"  said  Jem.  "  That's  another 
drawback  to  this  new  departure.  I'm  not  half  sure  I  ap- 
prove." 

"  I  am  the  other  half  sure  I  don't,"  murmured  Savigny. 

"  Didn't  you  like  it  ?  "  said  Antoine,  teasing  his  fingers. 

"  This  ? — oh "     James   and    Savigny   looked   at   one 

another. 

"  When  any  of  them  played  alone "  began  Jem,  with 

caution. 

"  But  they  constantly  interrupted  one  another,"  said 
Savigny. 


626  SUCCESSION 

"  The  lowest  seemed  to  me  the  steadiest  worker,"  said 
Jem.  "  He  earned  his  money,  that  fellow.  Good  big  instru- 
ment too,  must  have  bothered  him  a  bit.  The  second  young 
man  from  the  front  was  always  stopping ;  sneaked  it  quietly 
off  his  shoulder  as  soon  as  your  eye  was  off  him.  The  front 
one  looked  a  cheeky  fellow,  I  should  change  him  if  I  were 
you.  As  for  the  swell  at  the  piano,  I  saw  him  twice  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets " 

"  And  once  in  his  hair,"  called  Savigny.  "  If  it  is,  as  I 
suspect,  Edgell,  merely  a  question  of  noise,  it  would  have 
been  fairer  to  keep  his  lid  shut,  since  he  already — hey? 
What  now  ?  " 

He  looked  at  Antoine.  The  boy,  lying  full  length  as  had 
been  ordained,  had  frowned,  shut  his  eyes,  and  half  cov- 
ered his  ears  with  his  fingers. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Antoine.  "  Talk  alone.  I  understand  it 
better  when  you  do." 

"Which  of  us  shall  talk?" 

"  Papa,"  said  Antoine.     "  He  is  quieter." 

"  What  I  said,  Savigny,"  said  Jem.  "  His  ears  have  suf- 
fered, poor  little  kid.  We  might  have  foreseen  it,  five  to 
one  as  they  were."  He  obeyed  Savigny's  jerk  of  hand,  and 
went  to  the  boy's  side.  "What's  the  matter,  donkey?" 
he  said,  in  a  tone  low  enough.  "  Have  we  offended  you  ? 
Good  Lord,  you  never  thought  we  were  serious  ?  " 

"  No — I  did  not.  It  is  only,"  he  explained,  "  I  cannot 
understand  common  things  so  well,  when  I  have  been  listen- 
ing to  music.  When  I  have  to  listen,  like  that,  it  remains 
in  my  ears — and  I  hear  that  first.  It  is  stupid,  but  we 
can't  help  it." 

"  We !  "  laughed  Jem,  and  bending,  swung  him  up  with 
an  ease  the  doctor  envied  and  admired,  and  took  his  own 
seat  on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  grasping  him 
securely.  "  Now  then,"  he  proposed,  "  you  tell  us  all  about 
it:  the  motives  and  majors  and  minims,  and  all  the  shop. 
We  don't  know,  that's  what's  wrong  with  us — and  what 
has  been,  right  through.     We  want  instructing,  like  that 


F  1  N  iV  L  E  627 

long-  young-  fellow  with  the  smallest  fiddle  you  talked  to  so 
nicely." 

"  That  was  Jacques,  papa.  1  wanted  to  present  you  to 
him,  but  he  went  away.  It  was  my  own  little  fiddle  he  had. 
Did  you  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That's  what  I  listened  to.  It  might  have  been 
you  playing,  when  I  shut  my  eyes." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  papa,  it  might  not — how  impossible  to 
think  of  that !  "  He  laughed,  still  with  his  own  eyes  tightly 
shut.  "  Keep  quiet,"  he  said.  "  I  am  hearing  better  now. 
It  is  only  after  remaining  so  long  without  real  music,  prob- 
ably. I  have  heard  a  lot  of  the  other  sort — but  quietly,  do 
you  see?    ATost  quietly  of  all,  in  that  way." 

"  We  entirely  comprehend,"  said  Savigny  definitely  from 
the  distance,  where  he  was  walking  slowly  to  and  fro. 

"  He's  a  good  lecturer,"  said  Jem.  "  Always  was.  He 
lectured  to  me  at  four,  very  competently.  Bright  idea, 
Bebe:  why  not  take  to  that  next  year?  He'd  draw  big 
audiences  in  the  States,  Raymond,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"  Vulgar,"  said  Savigny  briefly.     "  Leave  him  here." 

"  No  role  for  him  here,  you've  treated  him  so  badly. 
He's  coming  with  me  instead — now  listen." 

Jem  talked  for  some  time,  about  what  he  expected  of 
Antoine  in  his  new  capacity.  He  talked  nonsense  as  well 
as  Philip,  when  he  was  put  to  it ;  and  he  found  it  a  suitable 
occasion.  The  farewell  to  Savigny,  of  course,  had  to  be 
made  before  they  left ;  he  had  settled  that.  It  was  de- 
cidedly too  great  a  strain  for  the  boy  to  go  through  this 
kind  of  interview  twice,  with  the  emotion  behind  of  which 
all  were  equally  conscious.  The  question  was,  how  it  could 
best  be  done.  Jem  and  Savigny  had  met  twice,  and  come 
to  an  end  of  all  business  for  the  time.  Jem  had  been  over 
the  plans  of  the  unfinished  institute,  and  even  once  over  the 
ground,  and  had  proved  of  inestimable  service  in  a  quiet 
way ;  supporting  some  of  the  doctor's  health-saving  schemes 
with  sound  advice,  and  smashing  others  completely  and 
finally  with  a  timely  word.    He  had  in  return  all  Savigny's 


628  SUCCESSION 

ideas  as  to  his  son's  treatment,  and  had  checked  them  off 
with  ideas  gleaned  from  Weber,  who  had  treated  him  with 
extraordinary  kindness  and  patience,  and  heard  out  his  own 
modest  views  with  flattering  attention.  Jem  saw  that,  al- 
lowing for  the  difference  of  temperament  in  the  men,  their 
apparently  divergent  methods  came  to  much  the  same  re- 
sult in  the  end,  and  were  not  so  very  far  distinguished  from 
his  own  observation  of  the  boy,  and  common-sense.  He 
was  fairly  at  ease  in  consequence,  and  prepared  a  campaign, 
of  a  nature  new  to  his  experience  but  not  devoid  of  interest, 
at  leisure ;  guarding  his  mind  deliberately  against  doubt, 
disappointment  and  despair,  since  his  own  sane  outlook, 
cool  judgment  and  easy  manner  were  reckoned  as  essentials 
in  the  case.  Jem  "  guessed  "  now  that  he  was  prepared  for 
the  worst  that  could  happen,  and  was  not  without  faint  hope 
for  the  best. 

While  he  soothed  and  played  with  the  boy,  practising  all 
the  fatherly  tricks  unconsciously — for  one  soon  returned 
to  old  habits  with  Antoine — Savigny  continued  to  pace 
slowly  to  and  fro,  holding  a  certain  distance  from  them, 
glancing  at  them  rarely,  though  he  inserted  a  remark  in  the 
discourse  at  intervals.  Meanwhile  the  shadows  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  large  dreary  room  spread  claw-like  towards  the 
centre,  where  they  sat,  the  small  oil-lamp  on  the  doctor's 
table  having  no  power  whatever  to  combat  them  and  the 
images  they  raised;  and  James,  still  chaffing,  was  perfectly 
aware  of  his  son's  strong  grasp  tightening  on  his  wrist. 
Antoine  always  turned  imaginative  when  he  was  tired ;  the 
place  was  permanently  haunted  to  his  mind ;  the  doctor, 
moving  from  shadow  to  light  with  that  mechanical  progress, 
looked  hardly  human.  Jem  did  not  wonder  the  least  that 
a  young  thing  should  be  frightened,  that  was  hardly  his 
concern,  so  greatly  the  other  necessity  weighed  upon  him. 
That  man,  his  old  rival,  who  would  not  take  a  penny  of  his 
money,  still  less  his  gratitude,  and  who  had  shown  such 
bitterness,  remorse  and  misery  when  he  approached  the 
subject,  that  he  could  only  recoil  from  it  again  in  all  haste 


FINALE  629 

— Savigny  had  got  to  be  repaid.  Jem  felt  keenly  his  in- 
capacity, shrank  almost  from  his  impossible  position ;  nor 
could  he  now,  as  in  the  former  case,  shift  the  task  upon  his 
father-in-law's  shoulders,  in  the  full  certainty  it  would  be 
well  performed.  It  was  a  deadlock,  unless  the  boy  he  held 
would  undertake  it ;  and  yet  he,  the  principal  victim,  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  feel  the  full  necessity.  He  was  jarred 
and  nervous  already,  as  his  father  knew  well  enough 
through  the  veils  of  dusk,  by  the  intellectual  efifort  of  the 
afternoon,  and  none  could  wish  to  tax  him  further;  yet 
try  it  every  way  he  would,  the  engineer  saw  no  escape. 

A  servant  entered  with  a  pile  of  ledgers  for  Savigny,  and 
a  message  about  them  from  M.  Bronne.  Savigny  gave  the 
servant  a  basilisk  glare  and  no  reply ;  but  his  hand  began 
mechanically  to  jerk  the  books  about,  and  arrange  them  on 
the  table. 

"  I  should  like  a  word  with  Bronne  before  I  leave,"  said 
James,  sighting  a  good  excuse.    "  Is  he  there  in  his  room?  " 
"  No,"  said  the  doctor.     "  Bronne's  away  for  the  day. 
Gone  to  meet  a  girl." 

This,  it  should  be  mentioned,  was  the  first  warning  Jem 
had  received  of  the  engagement ;  though  Antoine,  who  learnt 
things  from  Jacques,  remained  unmoved. 

"  Good  for  him,"  James  said  softly.  "  That's  rather  good. 
But  say — he  doesn't  leave  you  all  his  work?" 

"  He's  done  most  of  it,"  said  Savigny.  who  had  sat  down, 
glaring  at  the  books.     "  I  hate  accounts." 
"  What  are  they  ?  "  Jem  inquired. 

"  The  books  of  the  pension  for  the  year— more  than  a 
month  behind.  I  went  through  'em  once  last  night — totals 
wrong  in  three  places.  So  much  for  love  in  the  office.  Oh, 
Lord,  these  boys."  He  scowled  round  at  Antoine,  who 
giggled. 

"  Perhaps  yourself  you  added  wrong,"  he  murmured. 
"  There  you  are,  Raymond,"  said  Jem,  calmly  catching 
at  a  new  idea.    "  I'll  lend  you  this  kid  for  a  time,  he's  not 
so  bad  at  figures.    Accurate  and  pretty  quick— I'll  give  him 


630  SUCCESSION 

a  good  character.  I'd  take  the  job  over  myself  wkh  pleas- 
ure, only  I  have  some  books  to  pack  up  there  before  I  leave." 

Antoine  darted  a  look  hastily.  "  You  won't  remember  all 
the  ones,"  he  began.     *'  I  think " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Jem.  "  You'll  have  to  put  up  with  what 
I've  room  for.  I  can't  take  half  a  library.  Folks  who  make 
up  things  never  read,  anyway.  You  stop  with  the  doctor, 
and  follow  me  when  he's^Jiad  enough  of  you.    See?  " 

He  drew  his  arms  round  the  boy  suddenly  while  he  spoke, 
looked  in  his  eyes,  and,  detaching  the  grasp  on  him,  rose. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said,  shunting  him  gently  with  one 
hand  to  Savigny,  who  sat  before  the  books,  singularly  rigid, 
more  fate-like  than  ever,  with  the  grey  tints  on  his  face 
beneath  the  fixed  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  burning  Dr 
Bronne's  neat  pages  full  of  figures.  He  did  not  move  on 
his  side,  or  touch  Antoine,  though  he  was  close. 

"  You'd  better  take  him  ofif,"  he  said.  "  He  can't  be  of 
assistance  really.    It's  work  for  one  alone." 

"  Give  him  a  trial,"  said  Jem,  with  significant  gentleness. 
"  It's  my  job,  really,  but  I  put  him  in.  It's  nothing  but 
adding  up  a  few  things  from  last  year,  and  balancing  at  the 
end.  Only  needs  a  little  attention."  He  smiled  at  his  own 
words,  and  tapped  the  boy's  head.  "  Comprehend  ?  "  he 
said.  "  When  I  give  you  a  character  in  business,  you  should 
back  me  up,  not  look  so  solemn  over  it." 

Savigny  leant  back  suddenly.  "  It's  out  of  hours,"  he 
observed.     "  Look  at  the  chart." 

Jem  did  so  willingly.  He  took  a  nicely  ruled  card  from 
his  breast-pocket,  and  held  it  under  Antoine's  eyes.  It 
was  good  for  him  to  study  it  from  time  to  time,  Jem  con- 
sidered, and  take  notice  how  thoroughly  his  days  were 
regulated  for  him,  owing  to  their  kind  care.  Antoine  had 
ruled  the  red  lines  himself,  under  supervision.  His  eyes 
moved  along  them  now,  with  his  customary  thoughtful  de- 
tachment. Five  to  seven — yes — his  father  had  filled  an 
empty  space  with  the  words  "  social  and  domestic  uses." 
He  paused  over  the  words,  but  did  not  smile.     He  slipped 


FINALE  631 

a  glance  at  Savigny  under  his  lashes.  Savigny  was  looking 
at  him,  and  his  basilisk  eyes  were  not  terrible  at  all.  An- 
toine  drew  a  breath,  sat  down  on  his  knee,  leant  back,  and 
planted  four  delicate  fingers,  slightly  spread,  at  the  base  of 
the  figure  column. 

'  We  will  finish  this,"  he  observed  to  Jem,  in  reassur- 
ance. "  I  expect  it  is  all  right,  really.  M,  Bronne  is  so 
careful — but  I  will  see." 

Jem  took  occasion  to  inquire  after  the  household  accounts 
of  Savigny's  sanatorium  later. 

''  They  were  perfectly  right,"  said  Antoine,  with  em- 
phasis, "  except  where  Savigny  himself  had  corrected  them 
with  a  red  pencil.  And  that  was  exceedingly  difficult  to 
scrub  out  again,  he  had  corrected  it  so  hard.  I  was  care- 
fully scrubbing  most  of  the  time  I  was  there.  But  a  la  fin, 
the  page  looked  clean." 

"  I  am  glad  it's  clean,"  said  Jem,  with  feeling.  "  Did  he 
apologise  for  the  trouble  he  had  given,  while  you  scrubbed  ?  " 

'''  He  ? — oh  no.  I  had  to  add  the  wrong  pages  three  times 
because  he  would  not  even  look  at  them.  Then  I  asked  him 
to  sign  them,  politely.  But  no,  he  sat  there.  >  So  I  put  my 
hand  round  his  with  a  pen  in  it,  to  make  him  write.  But 
his  was  heavy  to  move,  so  that  the  S  became  rather  curious. 
So  I  told  him  it  was  sufficient  like  that,  and  he  dropped  the 
pen  immediately.  That  is  how  he  was — lazy.  And  his 
face — like  you  saw."  ^ 

"Did  he  lecture  you?"  inquired  Jem. 

"But  no!  He  did  nat  speak  at  all  of  his  things.  His 
mouth  would  not  move.  I  expect  he  was  tired  because  he 
has  too  much  to  do  without  M.  Bronne.  I  talked  a  little," 
said  Antoine  modestly. 

His  father  sat  upon  him.  "  I  didn't  intend  you  to  talk. 
,  I  thought  you  grasped  that." 

"  Well — M.  Raymond  would  not  really  let  me  do  any- 
thing else,  because  I  might  not  lift  my  arms.  He  simply 
held  them  down — pinching  me ;  which  I  am  sure  hurt  my 
heart  much  more,  because  I  felt  it." 


632  SUCCESSION 

"Did  you  betray  the  feeling?" 

"  No.  I  didn't  cry  at  all.  It  is  altogether  too  serious, 
how  he  looked,  how  he  feels  without  grandpapa,  and  with- 
out M.  Bronne,  and  not  wanting  that  young  lady,  and 
afraid  of  a  new  matron " 

"Afraid?"  said  Jem. 

"  Terribly  afraid.  I  saw  his  eyes.  I  did  not  mind  them 
to-night.  I  am  sure  to  keep  M.  Bronne  would  be  better, 
even  if  Madame  Bronne  had  to " 

"  Say,  Bebe,  how  did  you  collect  this  information,  if  the 
doctor  did  not  speak  ?  " 

"  He  moved  his  head,"  explained  Antoine,  "  and  made 
little  growls  to  my  observations.  And  his  eyes  at  me  were 
like  grandpapa's  when  it  amused  him,  several  times." 

"  I  guess  you  worried  him,"  said  Jem,  after  a  pause. 

"  No,"  said  Antoine,  having  considered  it.  "  He  was  bet- 
ter afterwards  than  before.  He  '  boudait '  not  so  much. 
Besides,  I  was  thinking  a  lot  for  him.  I  have  been.  Be- 
cause I  cannot  remain  myself  to  be  his  secretary,  though 
he  proposed  that  suddenly.  His  sudden  voice  is  rather 
frightening,  in  that  room.  Yourself,  you  have  engaged  me 
for  these  years,  I  said ;  because  that  is  how  I  like  to  imagine 
it."  An  interval  in  the  account  ensued.  "  I  found  it  ex- 
traordinary of  Savigny  to  ask  me,  when  he  approved  me  to 
go,  and  had  made  that  card  for  you,  all  so  correctly." 

Jem  agreed.  "  It  must  have  been  the  scrubbing  processes 
impressed  him,"  he  suggested. 

"  I  think,"  said  Antoine,  "  he  believes — that  if  you  take 
me  away — I  sha'n't  ever  come  back  to  Paris,  like " 

"  Just  so,"  said  Jem.  "  I  supposed  you  had  arrived  there, 
confound  you !  It's  a  hard  fate  for  Raymond,  to  lose  three 
of  you  in  turn.    Did  that  enter  your  reflections  ?  " 

"  I — don't  know,"  he  stammered.  "  Three  ?  Oh  no — I 
cannot  think  so  well  as  that."  His  eyes  moved  to  his 
father,  awestruck.  "  But  I  shall  come  back,"  he  murmured 
uncertainly.    Then :    "  It  is  impossible  how  things  arrange* 


FINALE  633 

themselves!"  he  flaslied  forth  in  impatience,  turned  on  his 
heel  and  departed  from  the  room. 

He  appeared  no  more  that  evening,  and  failed  to  be  of  any 
assistance  with  the  book-packing,  or  to  wish  his  father 
good-night  before  he  left.  It  is  possible  he  thought  there 
was  time  enough  before  him  in  two  years  for  such  atten- 
tion. It  is  possible  he  had  spent  his  small  change  of  affec- 
tion on  Savigny  already.  Nothing  he  had  said  gave  his 
father  reason  to  think  that  the  parting  interview  had  been 
in  its  fashion  less  finished  or  faultless  than  the  pages  he  had 
"  scrubbed  "  and  signed.  And  Jem,  who  knew  too  much 
of  Antoine's  resources,  when  his  feelings  were  in  flood,  to 
suspect  that  the  current  of  love  and  gratitude  could  be 
impeded  by  the  mere  holding  down  of  his  arms,  was  quite 
content  with  the  equity  of  the  arrangement. 

Of  the  single  remaining  creditor,  his  sister-in-law,  Jem 
spoke  in  the  close  confidence  of  parting  to  his  elder  son.  He 
spoke  earnestly  too,  on  the  station  platform,  under  the 
shadow  of  his  train. 

"  You  look  after  her,"  said  Jem.  "  She's  fond  of  you, 
likes  to  have  you  about,  and  luckily  you're  bright  enough 
to  be  worth  her  trouble.  She'll  need  somebody  now  more 
than  she  ever  did — I'm  safe  to  tell  you  this.  That  bit  of  a 
girl  Yvonne  put  me  on  the  track  last  night,  and  I  got  a 
question  in  with  Weber  this  morning.  I  thought  there  was 
a  chance,  but  no  such  luck.  She's  had  the  idea,  too,  which 
makes  it  worse.  It's  bad  for  women,  and  she's  one  in  a 
hundred.  Weber  says  her  courage  has  always  been  superb, 
simply  incapable  of  complaining.  She's  served  us  too,  and 
deserves  all  we  can  do,  though  that's  little  enough." 

"  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Philip,  looking  away  down  the 
gloomy  vistas  of  the  Nord. 

"  She'll  advise  you  too,"  said  his  father.  "  It's  not  as  if 
you  would  lose  by  it.  I'd  sooner  myself  you  had  a  woman 
in  reach,  when  I'm  away  out  there.  She's  a  first-class 
friend — was  to  your  mother  before.     She'll  never  fail  you. 


634  SUCCESSION  ^ 

if  you  are  decently  good  to  her,  and  keep  her  little  laws. 
I  expect  you  know  all  this  without  my  telling  you.  Of 
course  she'll  talk  you  inside  out  afterwards,  but  never  in 
a  bad  way.  I'm  sure  she'd  be  welcome  to  tear  me  limb 
from  limb,  anyway,  if  talking  made  her  any  happier.  But 
she  won't  be  happy  now." 

He  slipped  to  other  subjects,  understanding  and  liking 
Philip's  shyness  of  the  feminine  at  present.  He  did  not 
doubt  his  fealty  to  his  little  aunt,  and  he  went  the  right 
way  to  work  to  plant  in  him  what  is  more  fruitful  than 
admiration.  He  had  all  he  wanted  himself  of  Philip's  con- 
fidence as  it  was,  and  he  had  a  reassurance  of  old  date  that 
it  did  not  lose  by  being  set  on  paper.  Indeed  this  son  invari- 
ably told  him  more  by  letter  than  in  life,  a  trait  which  had 
often  amused  Jem  privately,  though  he  admitted  its  ad- 
vantages, in  the  life  he  was  driven  to  lead.  He  alluded  to 
it  now. 

"  We  shall  live  on  your  news,"  he  said,  "  both  of  us ;  but 
I  won't  go  shares  with  the  kid  unless  I'm  told  to,  eh?" 

"  He's  pretty  well  forward,"  remarked  Philip,  his  lip 
curving. 

"  That  may  be.  I  sha'n't  have  any  nonsense,"  said  Jem. 
"  He's  going  to  be  his  own  age  out  there.  If  he  hands  me 
any  cheek  he'll  get  his  ears  cuffed.    He  knows  that  too." 

"  He  remembers  it  now  and  then,"  said  Philip.  "  Tony 
has  a  remarkable  idea  of  you,  papa — always  had.  Some- 
thing between  a  chief-inspector — and  a  chucker-out — and  a 
church.  Whatever  nonsense  he  may  be  after  at  the  minute, 
he  turns  grave  when  you  are  mentioned.  It  rather  im- 
presses the  fellows  when  he  does  it,  I'm  a  bit  impressed 
myself." 

Jem's  appreciation  was  slight  but  sufficient.  Both  his 
sons  were  able  to  amuse  him,  which  is  a  real  asset  to  a 
hard-worked  father. 

"  It's  something,  in  a  matter  like  this,  to  be  obedient,"  he 
said,  when  his  turn  came  to  be  serious.  "  I've  got  a  nice 
list  of  little  rules  written  down,  and  if  he  doesn't  feel  in- 


FINALE  635 

dined  to  obey  Savigiiy  and  Co.  on  paper,  he'll  obey  nie  in 
life.  He's  a  good  deal  too  careless  about  sonic  things,  1 
consider.  It's  regular  living  and  sea  air  I  count  on  most, 
and  we  shall  have  a  week  on  shipboard  to  give  it  a  trial  first. 
I  wish  it  was  not  reckoned  necessary  to  stick  three  days  in 
London,  but  that  he's  set  on — won't  be  turned." 

"  That's  Reuss,"  said  Philip.  "  If  you  pick  up  friends  on 
the  way,  you  see,  Antoine  doesn't  see  why  he  should  not.  I 
can  tell  you,  papa,  you  had  better  lie  low  in  London,  and 
have  someone  sharp  to  watch  the  door.  He  has  probably 
made  appointments  with  six  of  the  very  latest,  the  first 
evening." 

"  It's  time  he  got  away  from  friends,  late  or  early,"  said 
Jem.  "  They're  a  bit  extravagant  in  their  requirements. 
Who  has  he  got  down  there,  now  ?  "  He  glanced  towards 
a  group,  circled  with  smoke,  farther  up  the  platform.  It 
was  small  but  noisy,  and  in  it  the  boy  himself  was  not  con- 
spicuous. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Philip.  "  Jespersen's  decided  to  come, 
though  he  swore  he  was  too  busy.  That's  the  celebrated 
Charretteur  with  Paul ;  you  can  only  see  half  his  nose,  but  I 
know  the  way  he  stands.  And  Axel — don't  you  know  Axel  ? 
Antoine  told  him  the  truth  in  London,  and  expected  never  to 
see  him  again.  I  didn't  let  on  that  Axel  asks  nothing  better 
than  to  be  walked  over,  which  is  the  fact." 

"  What  truth  did  he  tell  him  ?  "  said  Jem. 

"  He  never  said.  But  I  supposed,  that  he  was  no  artist. 
That's  what  they  all  feel  most." 

"  What's  Charretteur,"  asked  Jem,  with  discretion, 
"really?" 

"  Rather  a  caution,"  replied  his  son.  "  I  think — well^ 
he'll  not  do  the  kid  any  harm." 

"  That's  not  the  tense  we're  concerned  with,"  said  Jem. 
"  The  point  is,  wdiat  he  has  done." 

Philip  made  an  effort  of  mind.  "  I  think  he  has  taken  it 
over,"  he  explained.  "  What's  that  word  they  use  of  shift- 
ing concerns? — goodwill.    Antoine's  given  him  the  goodwill 


636  SUCCESSION 

of  his  playing  connection  for  a  couple  of  years,  do  you  see? 
That's  the  understanding.  He  would  have  handed  over  the 
extra  violin  too,  only  my  uncle  turned  rather  dangerous. 
I  see  you  are  carrying  off  your  own  property,  papa.  Jolly 
wise  of  you," 

James  glanced  down  at  the  violin-case  he  held.  "  No 
use,"  he  said.  "  They  will  not  be  separated.  I'll  have  to 
keep  his  hands  off  it,  though.  Look  here,  Phil."  He 
showed  his  son  in  private  a  little  silver  chain,  with  a  swivel 
on  his  button-hole,  and  a  key  attached.  "  Bebe  has  worn 
that  since  your  grandfather  put  it  round  his  neck  at  seven 
years  old,  never  left  it  even  in  illness.  Savigny  told  me  the 
worst  row  they  had  in  hospital  was  when  his  nurse 
tried  to  remove  it." 

"And  he  has  invested  you?  That's  one  to  you,"  said 
Philip  kindly.  "  Only,  I  say,  that  belongs  to  the  lost  case, 
doesn't  it?" 

"  That's  not  the  point,"  said  his  father,  with  a  smile. 
"  The  ceremony  was  the  point,  if  you  had  seen  his  eyes. 
Ceremonies  are  bound  to  be." 

"  Well,  I'll  let  my  uncle  know  that,  when  he  next  gets 
on  the  question  of  your  authority."  Turning,  Philip  added, 
"  Hullo,  Jesp,  you  look  serious." 

The  artist,  crumpling  his  soft  hat,  had  moved  to  their 
side. 

"  I  am,"  he  said.  "  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Edgell,  but  it's  past  a 
joke.  Antoine  has  given  that  young  rip  the  key  of  Le- 
maure's  front  door,  which  he  brought  off  by  mistake." 

"  Jacques  ?  My — aunt !  "  The  two  Englislimen  and  the 
Swede  looked  at  one  another. 

"  He  has  full  information  as  to  where  the  fiddle  is  kept — 
the  unimportant  fiddle  of  the  three,  you  know ;  and  your 
uncle's  hours,  Phil,  and  a  scribbled  introduction  to  the 
concierge.    If  that's  not  complete — what  do  you  think?  " 

"  They're  only  skylarking,"  said  Philip,  having  gazed  at 
what  was  visible  of  Jacques  during  the  pause.  "  What  do 
you  say.  Papa?" 


FINALE  637 

"Depends  what  the  national  notion  of  a  skylark  is,"  sai<l 
Jem. 

"  Just  so,  Mr.  Edgell,"  said  Jesperscn  earnestly.  "  W^ell 
now,  I  can  tell  you,  as  it  happens.  Ostrowski's  a  mixture, 
chiefly  Russian  and  Pole.  Axel's  a  London  Jew.  Char- 
retteur,  I  should  say,  is  a  French  gipsy.  Antoine  is — well, 
I  leave  his  origin  to  you — I  only  know  he's  off  his  head.  I 
should  suggest,  between  them  all,  you're  in  for  losing  a 
thousand  pounds  before  the  week's  out." 

"Who's  the  ringleader?"  said  Jem,  the  usual  pause  be- 
tween Northerners  having  elapsed. 

"  Jacques,  of  course.  He's  the  quietest,  too — young  fer- 
ret." 

"  Bother."  Jem  glanced  once  at  his  watch,  once  at  the 
distant  Charretteur.  "  Well,  I'm  inclined  to  trust  him,  to 
tell  the  truth.    But  if  you  like,  I'll  tackle  Tony." 

"If  I  like!"  said  Jespersen,  laughing. 

"  En  voiture !  "  the  guard  interrupted,  shouldering  down 
the  train. 

"  I'm  related  to  one  of  the  gang,  you  see,"  said  Edgell, 
giving  the  young  artist  his  hand.  "  Of  course  he's  no  right 
to  be  handing  keys  about ;  but  I  have  a  notion — now — this 
one  hasn't  much  value.  You're  the  eldest  of  these  young 
fellows,  aren't  you? — and  enjoy  a  quiet  life.  Well,  I  know 
what  it  is."  He  turned  his  head  of  a  sudden.  "  Catch 
that  kid  for  me,  will  you,  Phil?  He  means  to  be  left,  after 
all.     Con — found " 

It  was  a  close  thing;  for  Antoine,  at  the  last,  seemed  to 
lose  all  objection  to  being  left.  He  embraced  most  of  his 
circle,  and  got  a  cuff  from  two  of  them  for  attempting  it, 
including  his  brother.  Philip  took  him  by  the  scruff,  and  his 
father  scooped  him  in  and  upward  with  a  long  arm,  just  in 
time.  It  was  a  beautiful  exhibition  of  sleight  of  hand,  much 
like  a  capable  "  pass  "  at  football,  and  it  left  the  ring  of 
Frenchmen  laughing.  Fortunately,  also,  Antoine  emerged 
from  it  with  his  breath  quite  unimpaired ;  so  that  he  was 


638  SUCCESSION 

able  to  shout  a  last  insult  to  Ostrowski  from  the  platform 
of  the  train. 

When  the  little  company  of  friends,  having  watched  the 
train  out  of  sight,  gathered  to  depart,  they  naturally  looked 
about  for  Philip,  whom  it  would  be  necessary  to  protect 
and  console  in  the  noisiest  fashion  possible,  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening.  But  they  were  too  late,  for  the 
object  of  their  kind  intentions  had  already  vanished,  with- 
out ostentation  or  apology,  among  the  shadows  of  the 
sparsely  lighted  platform. 

"  Jacques  wants  to  marry  Yvonne,"  Antoine  broke  silence 
in  the  train,  having  gazed  for  a  pensive  period  at  the  sunset 
sky,  when  they  had  left  the  station  glooms  behind  them 
finally. 

"  Good  Lord,"  said  Jem,  disturbed.  "  You  might  give 
us  more  warning,  Tony." 

"  I  couldn't,  you  see,"  said  Antoine,  "  because  that  was  all 
a  secret." 

"  There's  nothing  in  it,  anyway,"  said  his  father,  having 
considered.  "  I  was  talking  to  the  girl  only  last  night,  and 
she  didn't  seem " 

"  Hein  ?  "  said  Antoine. 

"  It's  no  evidence,"  Jem  admitted.  "  You  can  go  on 
talking  for  the  present." 

Antoine  obliged  him.  "  I  said,"  he  proceeded,  "  that  I 
thought  Yvonne  would  not  mind  marrying  him ;  but,  of 
course,  we  are  not  sure  if  my  aunt  would  let  her." 

"  What  did  Jacques  reply  to  that  ?  " 

"  He   said No,   I   won't,"   decided   Antoine.     "  He 

oughtn't  to  say  those  things,  about  my  aunt." 

Jem  still  pondered,  for  he  felt  a  responsibility.  "  The 
girl's  too  young,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,"  said  Antoine,  surprised.  "  I  thought  Yvonne 
was  rather  old.  But  I  told  Jacques  she  must  stay  a  little  at 
Brackenhall,  because  la  petite  Vivette  could  not  go  there 
till  the  spring." 


FINALE  639 

"  And  who  may  that  be  ?  " 

"  You  remember,  papa,''  said  Antoine,  rather  shocked. 
"  The  little  sister  of  Yvonne  at  Porslanec — la  toute  petite. 
Yvonne  said  she  could  teach  her  if  she  had  her  a  month  in 
the  house." 

"  Ah."  Jem  regarded  him  fixedly.  "  Does  she  commonly 
consult  you  on  her  affairs  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  know  about  some  of  them,"  said  Antoine,  looking 
pleasantly  back.  "  There  was  the  electric  man — very  clever 
— you  would  have  liked  him,  papa.  But  Yvonne  said  he 
was  not  distingue,  do  you  see?  Jacques  is  different,  of 
course.  Jacques  is  distingue — very."  His  expression  be- 
came pensive  and  affectionate  again.  Jem  was  silent,  think- 
ing of  the  doorkey.  He  had  an  idea  that  the  question  of 
distinction  was  one  on  which  he  and  Antoine  could  never 
agree,  so  he  did  not  pursue  the  subject. 

"  Only  he  does  have  some  horrible  expressions,"  added 
Antoine,  after  the  pause. 

His  father  had  quite  an  uncomfortable  curiosity  to  know 
what  the  one  about  Madame  had  been.  He  had  himself 
an  acquaintance  with  various  layers  of  Paris  slang;  but  he 
had  little  doubt  Antoine's  distinguished  friend's  repertoire 
was  wider  and  deeper  too. 

"Don't  you  like  him,  papa?"  said  Antoine,  wriggling  a 
little  in  order  to  face  his  father,  who  sat  opposite. 

"  I  might  with  an  effort,"  said  Jem.  "  But  why  should  I 
try?" 

"  Because  he  is  a  kind  man — and  a  beautiful  artist — and 
he  has  been  my  friend." 

"  Has  been."  James  commented  on  the  tense.  "  Has 
Mademoiselle  Yvonne  knocked  you  out?  " 

"  No,  no — I  did  not  mean  that.  Beautiful  sun  there — 
look." 

"  I  want  to  know  about  '  has  been.'  " 

"It  is  not  English?"  Antoine  queried,  shyly  rather,  as 
he  looked  aside. 


640  SUCCESSION 

"  Yes.  But  what  does  it  mean  in  your  little  French 
mind?  " 

"  Certainly  I  had  an  idea  when  I  said  it,"  the  boy  said. 
He  flung  himself  at  the  view  again.  "  Look  at  those  win- 
dows shining,"  he  cried.    "  That  is  Paris — I  love  that  town." 

"  The  sun  shines  on  as  good,"  observed  Jem. 

"  You  think  it  is  too  old,"  said  the  boy,  catching  the 
implication  on  the  instant.  "  You  could  have  made  Paris 
better  yourself,  papa."  He  screwed  a  look  at  him,  laughing 
with  dazzled  eyes,  and  leant  out  to  see  the  last  of  the  tall 
sunlit  houses,  where  he  had  let  his  affections  dwell  so  long. 
"  It  is  so  beautiful  that  it  hurts  my  eyes,"  he  gasped,  fall- 
ing back  into  his  place  when  the  last  swung  out  of  sight. 

"  Your  mistake  for  looking  back  at  old  things,"  Jem 
moralised.  "  Let's  see  your  eyes,"  he  added,  after  an  in- 
terval. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Antoine,  showing  them.  "  I  thought 
that  was  finished  last  night,  but  it  was  not.  I  know — with- 
out grandpapa  in  the  Avenue — it  does  not  really  matter.  I 
am  really  quite  glad  to  come  with  you " 

"  Either  cry  or  talk,"  Jem  advised.    "  Not  both  at  once." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  you  won't  have  steam  enough  to  work  the  car." 

"  But  there  is  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you — amusing." 

"  That's  it.    I  don't  care  to  be  amused,  while  you  suffer." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  A  clutch.  "  I  like  how  you  say  that, 
papa.  But  this  is  a  curious  thing  that  happened  yesterday, 
about  old  things,  do  you  see?  And  when  I  have" — he 
paused  to  blow  his  nose — "  done  that,  I  will  tell  you.  I 
forgot  the  word  for  blowing  just  then,  that  was  why  I 
stopped." 

"  Stop  altogether,"  said  Jem,  taking  a  firm  hold  of  his 
wrists.  "  There  are  two  years  ahead  for  you  to  tell  me 
everything,  remember  that." 

"  I  remember  it — tant  mieux.  Only  this,  I  might  forget. 
.  .  .  For  days  and  days  before  Ribiera's  rehearsal,  I 
had  believed  my  quintet  was  all  right.    When  I  gave  it  to 


^ 


FINALE  641 

Victor,  I  found  it  beautiful — extremely.  But  when  I  heard 
it  played  at  that  house  " — a  gesture — "  no  longer  so  good." 

"  Performance  not  up  to  the  mark?  "  queried  Jem. 

"  Papa !  But  you  were  there !  "  Antoine  flashed  him  a 
look  in  reproach.  "  It  is  only  the  ideas  were  not  so  good — as 
I  had  thought.  Altogether,  I  believe,  they  are  better  in 
the  overture."  He  patted  his  pocket  absently.  *'  But  it  will 
need  a  big  orchestra  to  play  that,  and  perhaps  two." 

"  I  can't  think  of  anywhere  we  can  pick  up  two  orches- 
tras for  the  moment,"  said  Jem,  having  pondered,  "  but  I'll 
see." 

"  I  don't  want  them  yet,"  explained  Antoine.  "  You  see 
it  is  not  written  at  present.  Only  it  was  extraordinary, 
wasn't  it,  about  Ribiera's  quintet?  You  see,  my  idea  had 
been  quite  wrong.  Just  reading  it  again,  instead  of  having 
it  played  in  that  beautiful  way — I  might  have  thrown  it 
away.  Perhaps  even  yesterday ! — if  Ribiera  had  not  rather 
— rather  held  to  playing  it." 

"  Awful,"  said  Jem,  with  sympathy.  "  Makes  you  quite 
nervous  thinking  of  it."  Antoine's  eyes,  having  rested  on 
the  fading  sky  a  little,  came  to  his.  "  Any  other  old  thing 
you'd  like  to  throw  away,  my  dear?  There's  that  violin 
— or  me.    We're  neither  of  us  exactly  up  to  date." 

"  Cher  papa,"  Antoine  murmured.  His  smile  was  in 
polite  protest.  It  expressed  quite  a  measure  of  toleration 
for  "  old  things  "  and  Jem's  outworked  generation.  But 
he  was  evidently  not  attending  very  closely,  and  his  hand 
was  over  his  heart,  where  the  notebook  also  was. 


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